


A Blue Star Smiling

by PurpleSoot



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Female Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 89,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleSoot/pseuds/PurpleSoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The journey of Bucky Barnes and Stevie Rogers, from a rescue behind enemy lines to a fateful train in Austria, and from a Brooklyn back alley to the harsh reality of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes struggles to focus on anything but the repetitive motion of his feet on the forest floor. They’ve been marching through the night, past a sunrise he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again, and now it’s close to mid-morning. It’s been less than eight hours since Stevie pulled him off that gurney, but it feels like he’s been walking for days. He’s so far past exhaustion that he doesn’t even really feel tired anymore; he’s just moving, dreamlike, through the landscape.

Someone approaches the front of the column, respectfully, and says, “Captain? The men are slowing down. It might be best to find a place to hole up for a while, until it gets dark again.”

Bucky registers the words—barely—but the only thing he’s really aware of is Stevie’s arm around his waist, taking at least half his weight off his battered feet. There hadn’t been time, fleeing the exploding factory, to find him proper boots, but hell if he was going to ride in a vehicle when Stevie was out front in the line of fire. He’d been more worried about grabbing a weapon than shoes.

“We can’t really hide a group this size,” Stevie says, continuing to walk but at a slower pace, as if just now realizing that beaten, half-starved prisoners might not be able to keep up with Captain America: Super Soldier. “Not to mention the trucks. Or the tank.”

Bucky’s feet, which have long since gone numb, can’t adjust to the new rhythm. He stumbles, and it’s only Stevie’s arm tightening around him that keeps him upright.

“Bucky?” Stevie asks immediately, sounding worried.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says. It comes out almost a growl. “I can keep moving.”

The more distance he puts between himself and that hell-hole, the better he’ll feel.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Stevie says, voice fond. “You can hardly stand.”

They stop, then, and it’s all Bucky can do to lean against Stevie’s shoulder and stay on his feet. There are discussions happening, he thinks, but he can’t really follow them. Something about getting the equipment hidden in the trees as best they can, and working out a quick rotation for sentries and scouts among the healthiest survivors. There’s mention of sending someone to look for water, which they all desperately need. The wounded are to be checked over, and found safe places to rest for a while.

It’s clear to Bucky, even with the fog in his head, that Stevie doesn’t have the training to organize a group this size. Still, the ideas are sound, and the men treat them like orders. The surviving officers take care of the rest.

Bucky might lose some time, then, because the next thing he knows he’s lying down in a little hollow between two tree roots. There’s a rolled-up cloth—somebody’s abandoned shirt, maybe—under his head as a pillow. Stevie is standing over him, looking worried.

“Sleep, Buck,” Stevie tells him.

Bucky doesn’t want to go to sleep. The last hours have seemed like such a dream. If he closes his eyes, will he wake back up on Dr. Zola’s table? Will Stevie disappear?

He doesn’t realize that he’s spoken out loud until Stevie crouches down and says, “If you were dreaming, would I look like this?”

Bucky snorts. It’s not even the costume that confuses him, although he still can’t believe Stevie went on a mission wearing something like _that_ , and actually got real soldiers to take it seriously. (He supposes that freeing over three hundred prisoners of war and destroying a secret Nazi base, single-handed, is impressive enough no matter what the person doing it is wearing.)

Underneath the ridiculous clothes, though, it’s still his Stevie. He can tell that much. Same eyes. Same stubborn chin. Even the same voice, if a bit stronger now that there’s no asthma to fight. The height is new, and the wider shoulders, and more muscles than he can count properly, as woozy as he is ... but it’s still Stevie. The body may be different, but the important things are all still there.

Aren’t they?

Bucky retains just enough sense to glance around one time, making sure that no one is watching them closely, before he reaches out his hand.

Stevie takes it without hesitation.

“Under all that,” Bucky says quietly. “The costume and the muscles ...” He swallows, his throat suddenly tight. “You still my girl?”

Stevie squeezes his hand, takes a moment to repeat his perimeter check, and smiles. It’s as beautiful as he remembers.

“Hey,” she says, pretending to be insulted. “You think I drop behind enemy lines for just anybody?”

Bucky doesn’t smile back. He’s not sure he can, just now. Maybe not for a while.

But he closes his eyes and falls asleep.

 

\--

 

When he first meets her, she’s eight years old, with scuffed knees and bloody knuckles, in the alley behind the grocer’s. She’s staring down a group of three boys, all older and much, much bigger than her. There’s no sign of the mistreated dog he’ll later learn was the reason for all the fuss. All he sees, when he comes around the corner on his way home from school, is a girl whose shoulders are shaking, with tears on her cheeks.

He realizes quickly that the shaking is from fury rather than fear, and the tears from frustration rather than pain. Not that it changes his reaction much.

After the three boys have been properly run off—protesting fiercely that they wouldn’t hit a girl, even after she tried to throw a punch; they just pushed her around a little and she fell, _honest_ —he holds out his hand and introduces himself, with all the superiority of his extra year and four inches of height.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he says proudly.

She doesn’t relax her fists, although at least they stay by her sides. She looks ridiculous, all bony elbows and sunken chest and dirty skirts.

“I didn’t need your help,” she says. “I could have handled it on my own, thanks.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says without thinking. “I just sped them along a little.”

He waits, but the girl seems determined to just stand there and stare at him. He wiggles the hand he’s still holding out, trying to draw her attention to it. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he tries again.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s a dumb name,” she says. “It’s too long.”

“It is not!” He scowls at her, but he doesn’t drop his hand. His Ma taught him to be polite to girls. “Aren’t you going to tell me yours?”

Finally, she reaches out and shakes his hand. Her fingers are cold, and her hand feels tiny in his.

“Stephanie Rogers,” she says.

He grins. “Hey, that’s just as long as mine!”

“Is not,” the girl says quickly.

“Is, too,” he says. He holds out his hands and counts syllables on his fingers. “James Bu—chan—an Barnes,” he says, ending with an open hand. “Steph—a—nie Ro—gers,” he adds, using the second hand. When he’s finished, he spreads his arms. “See?”

The girl just stares at him some more. “Well, my Ma calls me Steph sometimes.” She cocks her head at him, clearly thinking. “Do you want to be Jimmy?”

He wrinkles his nose.

“Maybe Barney?” she asks.

His face gets even more scrunched up.

She chews on her bottom lip. (It’s the cutest thing nine-year-old him has ever seen.)

“How about Bucky?” she asks. “From Buchanan. I’ve never met anybody called that before.”

He thinks about it for a moment, considering. “I could maybe do that,” he allows.

“Bucky it is,” she says, and for the first time, she smiles at him. “Bucky and Steph.”

They’ve started to walk, leaving the alleyway behind them. It’s understood that he’s escorting her home, just to be sure nobody else tries to mess with her.

“You know what?” Bucky asks after a moment, kicking a rock down the curb. “I don’t like ‘Steph.’ Your name should be two syllables, so we still match.”

“I could go by Rogers,” she offers, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets. “That’s two syllables, and it’s what everybody calls me at school.”

“No,” Bucky says instantly. “It’s got to be a nickname, just for me and you, or it ain’t special.” He hops from the curb to the pavement and back, over and over, hands outstretched for balance. “What’s your middle name? Then we’d really match.”

“Grace,” she says.

He watches her for a moment as they walk, rolling that name around in his mouth without saying it out loud. “Could you be Gracie?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t think so.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. He keeps thinking, going _Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie_ in his head. “Fanny?” he offers. He doesn’t wait to see her reaction, just shakes his head. “No, that isn’t right. Let me think.”

They walk for a bit, occasionally bumping shoulders or elbows.

After a minute, Bucky snaps his fingers and says, “Hey! I got it. Stevie.”

She looks at him funny, like that’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.

“I know, it’s not _really_ short for Stephanie,” Bucky admits. “But it’s close enough, ain’t it?” When she looks like she’s about to start arguing, he quickly adds, “It’s really pretty. I like it.”

She’s still looking at him funny, but now it’s a slightly different kind of funny. She’s not looking at him like he’s being dumb, but like he’s said just the right thing completely by accident. It makes a strange warm feeling spread through his chest, and Bucky thinks maybe he’d be okay with her looking at him like that anytime she wants. Maybe forever.

“Stevie,” she says finally. “Okay. If you like it, it’s good enough for me.”

From that moment on, it’s settled. Bucky and Stevie.

Yeah. He likes the sound of that.

 

\--

 

Bucky wakes up aching all over, but lucid in a way he hasn’t been in days. Weeks? He doesn’t even know how long it was between getting dragged out of the group cell for interrogation and Stevie appearing like some bizarre, patriotic angel to rescue him. His memory of the time in between is all a blur, a cascade of soft edges punctuated by bright, sharp points of pain that he refuses to think about. For the first time since Dr. Zola started putting needles in him, however long ago that was, his head is clear.

The sun is balanced on the western horizon, as if trying to decide whether it wants to set completely or not. The forest around him is already half-lost to twilight, turning the men around him into dark shadows. The only part of scenery that still has color is the red and white of Stevie’s uniform top and the gold of her short hair.

Bucky sits up, rubbing at his face. There’s a canteen next to him, propped against a tree-trunk, so he takes several long swallows to alleviate the burn in his throat. There’s no particular part of him that’s wounded, as far as he can tell, but he’s stiff and he _hurts_. It’s a constant low ache in the back of his mind, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

There’s nothing he can do about it, though, so he makes himself ignore it. He tells himself that it’s just his body’s response to exhaustion and stress; once he’s in a safe place and he can really rest for a day or two, he’ll be fine. He caps the canteen and puts it back where he found it, half-empty now.

Bucky turns his attention to Stevie, several yards away but close enough to see clearly in the vanishing light. She’s got her arms wrapped comfortably around her knees as she sits in the middle of a circle of rescued prisoners. Her face is turned to where Bucky was sleeping, but she’s listening intently as the men talk quietly around her.

They must be what’s left of the various Allied officers, or else whichever men are well enough and sensible enough to take charge in the meantime: an impromptu command for their ragged company. Stevie is clearly the leader, by virtue of having saved everyone more so than her apparently being a Captain, although that helps. Bucky doesn’t think any officers higher than Lieutenants ended up at the prison camp.

Bucky takes the opportunity to just look at her for a moment, as impartially as he’s able. She’s sitting right next to the normal soldiers she’s trying to mimic, so it’s easy to compare. Of course, she’s had a man’s posture and habits for years, at least in public. For her to even make it this far, to get through enlistment and training, she must have fooled an awful lot of people.

The new height helps. She used to be small even for a girl, which made her downright tiny for a man. Now she’s maybe an inch taller than Bucky, although by no means the biggest person here. The new muscles have bulked her up considerably, but she was so skinny to begin with that she’s still got a lithe sort of look about her.

Interestingly, the transformation—the serum, she called it—has given her more curves than she had before, which ought to make her seem feminine. She’s still flat-chested, though, which makes Bucky wonder if there’s something in that uniform top compressing her breasts. Why else would she wear something so colorful on a night op behind enemy lines? At least she had the sense to cover it up with a dull brown leather jacket.

It seems obvious to Bucky, but of course he knows what to look for. With a man’s haircut, man’s clothing, and a soldier’s bearing, she can pull it off. She’s uncommonly pretty, maybe, for a man—with a soft mouth and an almost delicate shape to her face—but it can be written off as a kind of universal attractiveness.

(As long as she’s careful where she showers, or when she sneaks off to take a piss. As long as no one gets a chance to see her changing clothes, or washing out the cotton pads she uses when she’s on her monthlies. As long as she carries a razor everywhere, and convinces people she’s a stickler for shaving instead of being unable to grow any scruff.)

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t know whether to be unbelievably proud of her for what she’s accomplished, against all odds, or terrified that she’s going to get caught somehow. Or just plain terrified of her being here, in a war he never wanted her to fight, despite knowing how much it meant to her.

He gets to his feet.

Stevie is keeping an eye on him, so he doesn’t get three steps toward her little command council before she’s on her feet and meeting him halfway. If she cares that she’s ignoring one of the men around her, who was in the middle of giving her a report on something, she doesn’t show it.

“Bucky?” she asks, reaching for his shoulder, as if she needs to remind herself that he’s real. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky’s eyes flick over to the little circle of officers, who are watching them intently. Even though all he really wants to do is throw his arms around her, he knows he can’t do anything to jeopardize her authority. The last thing Stevie needs is people asking too many questions.

“Captain,” Bucky says formally, shifting into something that’s not-quite-attention, but still respectful. “Can I have a word?”

Stevie doesn’t hesitate to mimic his posture, trusting him. (She always does, even when she shouldn’t.)

“Of course, Sergeant,” she says.

“In private, sir?” Bucky clarifies.

Stevie turns to the officers and nods at them, almost apologetically. “Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” she says. Her attention returns to Bucky, and she adds, “Come with me, Sergeant.”

Bucky follows Stevie into the woods, away from watchful eyes. They walk in silence, covering enough ground that the trees hide them from the rest of the makeshift camp. She makes sure not to go far enough that a yell won’t reach them if something were to happen, but if they talk quietly they won’t be overheard.

When she stops, Bucky checks to be sure they’re out of sight. When he’s satisfied that it’s safe, he lets the military posture drop from his shoulders until he’s just standing there staring at her. He drinks in the sight of her face, more familiar than his own. It’s a little more filled out than he remembers, hollow cheeks having turned into a strong jawline. She looks healthy, for once.

He has to look up, just slightly, to meet her eyes. It doesn’t bother him, exactly, but it does give him a sense of vertigo. Little Stevie Rogers, who Bucky could tuck under one arm almost without lifting it, is now taller than him.

“Stevie?” he whispers.

“Yeah, Buck,” she whispers back. She’s smiling, and it’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “It’s really me.”

He moves to hug her, but his instincts are all wrong. She doesn’t fit under his chin the way she used to. She doesn’t feel like she’s drowning in his arms that could almost circle her narrow shoulders twice. He can’t pick her up and swing her around as easily as a child, now.

“Thought I lost you,” Stevie tells him, voice low and earnest by his ear. “Jesus, Buck. I was almost sure you were gone.”

Bucky shivers. He holds her tighter, tighter than he ever dared back when she was all skin and fragile bones, almost tight enough to leave bruises. He has to tilt his head back, now, to press their foreheads together, and it’s familiar and strange all at once. He used to have to lean forward and tilt his head pretty far down, and even then he’d hit her head near the top, at her hairline. Now that they’re almost the same height, the angle seems wrong. At least her eyes are the same, staring right back at him from just a few inches away.

“I think I was,” he says. After a moment of just standing there, listening to her steady breathing, he adds, “Maybe I still am.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Stevie pulls back just far enough to glare at him. “For the last time, James Buchanan Barnes. I am real, and you are out of that place. Okay?”

Part of Bucky almost wants to laugh, because that? That glare that’s now turning into a look somewhere between bewilderment and exasperation? That’s Stevie, all over. Come to think of it, the outrageous outfit? That’s Stevie all over, too. Bold as brass, attracting attention, nothing to hide (except her gender). Even the new body feels _right_ , like this is how she was always meant to be: strong, loud, healthy. And so beautiful that Bucky won’t be the only one to see it, anymore.

“Are you all right?” Stevie asks, her voice gone a bit softer. “I don’t—I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says quickly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Buck ...”

“I’m fine, Stevie,” he says again.

They pull apart a little more, just enough to have a conversation, not enough to let each other go completely.

Bucky stares at her for a long, silent moment. He wonders where he should begin.

At last, he gives a sigh, shakes his head, and says, “What were you _thinking_ , coming after me like this? All alone, behind enemy lines?”

“What do you mean, what was I thinking?” Stevie demands, defensive. “I was thinking about you rotting in some Nazi dungeon, if you weren’t already dead. Of _course_ I was coming after you! I couldn’t just leave you out here!”

“Keep your voice down, _Captain_ ,” Bucky hisses. Which reminds him ... “How the hell did that happen, anyway? Captain America?” He raises his eyebrows. “What does that even mean?”

Stevie flushes, just barely, across her cheekbones. It’s almost too dark to see it. “It’s sort of a propaganda thing,” she says quietly. “Sells war bonds.”

Bucky blinks. “You pulled rank on an entire Allied company based on a _stage_ _name_?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Stevie says. “It just sort of ... happened.”

“Jesus Christ, Stevie,” Bucky mutters. He wants to rub at his forehead, because his skull still aches, but he won’t let go of her to do it. “Have you had any training at all?”

“Um, standard basic before the procedure,” Stevie tells him. “Some tests after, but that was scientific more than anything. How much weight can I lift? How fast can I run? Things like that.” She shrugs her too-broad shoulders. “Then it was all USO shows. You know, dancing girls and memorizing my lines and punching Hitler.”

Bucky feels his stomach starting to sink. “I meant officer training,” he says.

“Oh. No. Nothing like that.” Stevie smiles, a little helplessly. “My tags say ‘Captain Steven G. Rogers,’ but it’s really just for the show.”

Bucky stares at her.

It’s not that Stevie makes a bad leader, or anything. Nobody much gave her a chance to be one, before, but Bucky’s been following her around for two-thirds of his life and doesn’t regret a moment of it. Clearly her instincts have gotten her along all right so far, but how long is that going to last? Sooner or later the men are going to expect her to know things that have nothing to do with good leadership and everything to do with military protocol and regulations. For the moment, she’s riding the wave of awe for the rescue she just pulled off. What happens when that starts to wear off?

“Do you even know how to fire a gun?” Bucky asks, his voice going oddly high-pitched and tense.

Stevie mumbles something.

“What?”

“I haven’t touched one since basic, months ago,” she admits. “It was too dangerous, with all the crowds full of kids, so I was never actually issued one.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says again.

“I know I can do this, Bucky,” Stevie says quietly. Her eyes are bright, all earnest honesty and conviction. “I’ll figure it out as I go, if I have to.” She hesitates, arms tightening just slightly around him. “Are you with me?”

“Of course,” Bucky says instantly. His tone makes it very clear that he’s insulted that she doubted him enough to ask in the first place. “Like I’d let you do this alone. Idiot.”

She smiles. “Hey, watch it.” Her voice is so fond that it’s impossible to tell it’s technically a rebuke.

They stand there for another moment, her smiling and him drinking in the sight of it, one he never thought he’d see again. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he tells himself that he’ll never take it for granted again.)

“Okay,” Bucky says after a while, businesslike.

She must sense the change in his demeanor, because she finally releases him. He does the same to her, and now they’re just a couple of soldiers having a conference in the woods.

“We’ll work on the technical stuff later—regulations, protocols, that sort of thing. For now, the most important thing you can do is be seen leading. Act confident; let the men see you as heroic, a bit larger than life. That’s what holding the rest of us together.”

Stevie’s nose wrinkles a bit. “That sounds like the stage tour all over again.”

“Stevie,” Bucky says, and waits until she looks him in the eye. “You are an actual, honest-to-God _hero_. You busted every one of us out of that place, _by yourself._ Every man here owes you his life. You saved all of us.” He can’t quite make himself smile, but he thinks maybe the corners of his mouth lift up a little. “You saved me.”

Stevie puts one hand on his head and runs her fingers gently through his dirty hair. “Well,” she says, and her voice is sad and hopeful all at once. “It was finally my turn.”

Bucky’s eyes close at her touch, and he’s suddenly so tired that he almost lets his knees give out, trusting to Stevie to catch him. He wants nothing more in that moment than to lean into her fingers. He’ll go limp, and Stevie will hold him up, maybe kiss his forehead as she cradles his head, fingers smoothing away the memories of the last several weeks. Hell, the last _year_. There are a lot of things he’d like to forget, to let her touch erase.

Instead, Bucky opens his eyes and pushes her hand away as gently as he can. He gives her fingers a brief squeeze before he lets go, trying to let her know that it’s not her fault.

“Be careful,” he says quietly. “We can’t ... Stuff like this could get you caught.”

Stevie swallows once, but he knows she understands. It doesn’t help the hurt he can see in her eyes, or the sharp ache that springs up inside his chest the moment her fingers leave his hair. It’s going to be an entirely new kind of torture, to have her within arm’s reach after months of being an ocean apart, but not being able to touch her for fear of being seen.

“Does anyone else know?”

That maybe should have been his first question, but Bucky hasn’t really thought about it until now.

Stevie nods. “The doc who picked me knew from the start, but he’s dead now.” There’s something in her voice, something painful, but she quickly moves on. “Anybody who was at the procedure and saw me change. It was ... uh ... a little hard to miss.” She flushes again, but only briefly. “So, that’s Colonel Phillips. Agent Carter. Senator Brandt. Some of their aides or assistants, probably. I didn’t get a full count.” She pauses for a moment. “Howard Stark.”

Bucky rubs at his forehead, like he’s been wanting to do for the last ten minutes. (Did she say _Howard Stark_?) “But the general army?”

“No,” Stevie says. “They put out a silencing order on anybody who found out, and I’m not allowed to tell anyone else, obviously. Had to sign a bunch of papers saying I’d keep it a secret.”

“Well,” Bucky says, crossing his arms. “You’ve managed pretty well so far. At least now I can cover for you, as much as possible. It can’t have been easy, all by yourself.”

Stevie grins at him, the open, easy expression that means he’s just said the right thing. “God, Bucky,” she whispers. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, trying to shrug it off. He ignores the way the backs of his eyes are suddenly hot and prickly, or the way his throat tightens. “I missed you too, you little punk.”

“Not so little anymore,” she reminds him, playfully bumping into him with one muscled shoulder.

“Still a punk, though.”

“Jerk.”

“Come on,” Bucky says. He nods back toward the makeshift camp. “We’d better get back before somebody gets curious.”

It’s full dark now, and Stevie leads the way back to the others with confident steps and head held high. Bucky watches her from half a pace back, afraid that how he feels about her is written all over his face. His Ma used to tease him about that, about the way he would stare after little Stevie Rogers like she was the center of the whole universe. Bucky never minded the joking, to be honest, because as far as he was concerned it was true.

Now, a look like that could get her caught. At best, it would get both of them dishonorably discharged. Bucky won’t mess this up for her, not after how hard she had to work to get her chance.

It’s a monumental effort, but he schools his face into a cold professionalism and follows her back.

The little circle of officers is right where they left them, now just dim shapes in the moonlight that’s managed to filter through the tree tops. Stevie walks up to them without hesitation, Bucky still on her heels.

“Gentlemen,” she says, voice firm. She politely waits for them to stand before continuing. “I’d like to get us moving, now that it’s dark enough to discourage patrols. Agreed?”

There’s a brief chorus of assent. If they’re anything like Bucky, they aren’t comfortable still behind enemy lines, liable to be recaptured at any moment.

“Very well,” Stevie says. She turns to Bucky. “Sergeant Barnes!”

Bucky snaps to attention on instinct, and holy _hell_. Who taught her to use her voice like that? Bucky doesn’t know whether to be impressed or jealous. “Captain?”

“Get this company moving, Sergeant,” Stevie orders smartly. “I want us back in Allied territory by dawn.”

“Yes, sir!”

 

\--

 

The first time that Bucky kisses Stevie, he’s ten years old.

It’s a late summer afternoon and school is out for another two weeks, so the neighborhood kids are messing around playing ball in the empty churchyard. Bucky had convinced Stevie to come along, even though the heat is bad for her asthma.

Twelve-year-old Ernie MacMillan has declared himself the captain for today, via the time-honored tactic of making the most noise about it, and also being the biggest boy there. That means he’s the one Bucky and Stevie walk up to when they arrive, because it’s the captain’s job to make sure the teams are divided as fairly as possible.

Unfortunately, Stevie had caused a ruckus with Ernie MacMillan last week for making Marcy Wallace cry in front of her friends. Normally Ernie would just ignore Stevie’s attempt at a scolding, but Mrs. MacMillan had happened to come by, and she heard a bit of it. She’d asked Stevie to explain what had happened, and Stevie had told her, even though that made her a snitch. Ernie had gotten a strapping over it once his Pa came home, and he’d been nasty to Stevie ever since.

When Bucky tries to get them into the game, Ernie refuses to put Stevie on either team. First he says it’s because they’d have an odd number, but even when Bucky offers to switch in and out with her—making his proposed teammates groan, because Bucky is big and athletic for his ten years, while Stevie is small and frail and only nine (and a girl) besides—Ernie still won’t let her play. Instead, he pulls Bucky a little to the side to talk to him one-on-one.

“Come on, James,” Ernie says, speaking softly so that Stevie can’t hear him. “If it was any other girl, I’d let her try. We’d all get a laugh out of it and move on. But Stephanie Rogers?”

Bucky starts to get mad. “What does that mean?” he demands.

“Just look at her,” Ernie says, following his own advice and staring at Stevie. “I bet she couldn’t hit the ball if her life depended on it.”

“She could, too,” Bucky says loyally, even though silently he kind of doubts it, if he’s honest with himself.

Ernie rolls his eyes. “Biggest mystery in Brooklyn,” he says, shaking his head like Bucky’s somehow disappointed him. “Why do you let her follow you around, anyway? She your little girlfriend?”

Bucky crosses his arms. “No,” he says, maybe a little too quickly.

Ernie, sensing he’s found a sore spot, starts to laugh. “She is, isn’t she? And that’s even sadder, because she has got to be the _worst_ girl in the whole world.”

“She is not,” Bucky says. (He thinks to himself that it’s just as well Stevie is over there not listening, because she’d probably have thrown a punch by now.) “She’s as good as any girl in Brooklyn. In New York, even. Maybe better, because she’s not afraid of spiders or rats or anything.”

Ernie has a sneaky look on his face, now. “Yeah?” he asks. “So prove it, then.”

Bucky senses that he’s fallen into a trap of some kind. “What?”

“Prove you think Rogers is as good as a normal girl,” Ernie taunts. “Go over there and give her a kiss, why don’t you?”

“What?” Bucky says again. “No!”

Ernie shrugs. “You’re the one who said she was as good as any other girl,” he reminds Bucky. “You going back on your word, Barnes?”

“No,” Bucky says. He’s confused, because how did this go from arguing about letting Stevie play with them to whether or not she’s worth kissing? “I just don’t want to kiss her, is all.”

Ernie laughs. “That’s what I thought.” He claps Bucky on the shoulder, like they’re friends now or something. “Send her home, and you can play.”

Bucky pushes Ernie’s arm off him. “That isn’t fair.”

“Great, now you even sound like her,” Ernie says, throwing his hands up. There’s a dangerous gleam in his eye as he leans forward, dropping his voice even lower. “Come on, James. I _dare_ you to kiss her.”

Bucky hesitates. He has a feeling this is a bad idea, but dares aren’t things to be taken lightly. The whole neighborhood knows James Barnes isn’t someone who’ll back down; with how much he has to step in to keep Stevie from getting pummeled, he needs a good reputation.

“I bet you won’t do it,” Ernie adds. “Too chicken, aren’t you?”

That settles it. “Fine,” Bucky says, and turns around.

Stevie is over by the brick wall where kids who are watching or waiting a turn sit with their legs dangling off. She’s leaning against the wall instead of sitting on it, arms crossed, looking down at her shoes. She glances up when Bucky walks over to her, though.

“What did he want?” Stevie asks. “Why wouldn’t he say it in front of me?”

Bucky licks his lips, determined not to lose his nerve. Before he can change his mind, he puts his hands on Stevie’s bony shoulders to hold her still and presses his chapped lips to her cold ones. He has no real idea how to go about kissing a girl, so he just copies what he’s seen his Pa or the older boys around the neighborhood doing. When he feels like it’s been long enough to count as a real kiss, not a goodnight peck like his Ma gives him before bed, he steps back.

Stevie narrows her eyes. “What was that for?” she asks, her voice oddly cool.

A long time ago, last year maybe, Stevie made up a rule that Bucky could never lie to her. She even made him spit-swear to hold to it forever, or they couldn’t be friends. So even though he wants to make something up, he dutifully says, “Ernie dared me.”

Stevie considers this for a moment. Then she rears back and socks him in the jaw with one fist.

Somewhere behind him, Ernie is laughing so hard it doesn’t sound like he can breathe. That’s the cue for the rest of the kids watching to join in, complete with a few appreciative whistles.

“I’m going home,” Stevie announces, and stalks off. “Have fun,” she calls back over her shoulder.

Ernie is doubled over, hands on his stomach. “That was great,” he gasps around laughter. “Did you see her face?”

“You’re an asshole, Ernie,” Bucky says, because that’s his new favorite curse word, picked up last week from his Pa after a bad day at the garage.

Then he goes after Stevie, to the sound of renewed laughter echoing through the churchyard.

He finds her just one street over, because his legs are longer and, unlike Stevie, he won’t stop breathing properly if he runs in this heat. He catches up, then immediately slows down and walks by her side.

“Hey,” he says, slinging an arm over her shoulder like he always does, because she’s so tiny she fits just right in the bend of his elbow. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

Stevie gives him another narrow-eyed look, but lets him leave his arm where it is. “Well, what did you think would happen?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Bucky admits. “It was just a dare. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

Stevie sniffs in his general direction. “Well how about next time somebody dares you to do something stupid, you _don’t_?” She hesitates. “Or at least tell me about it, so I can help next time.”

Bucky shrugs. “It wasn’t _that_ bad.” He thinks maybe he ought to be a little offended.

Stevie looks away, but not fast enough for him to miss the little smile at the corner of her mouth. “Sorry I hit you,” she says quietly. “That was mean. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Bucky works his jaw for a second, rubbing at it with two fingers from the hand not around her shoulders. “You know, it just might bruise.” He winces, maybe a little over-dramatically.

Stevie sighs. “You’re not supposed to lie. Not even to make me feel better.”

Bucky just can’t win today. “Well, okay. No. It didn’t hurt at all, actually.”

“Figures,” Stevie says, kicking absently at a pebble.

She sounds so sad about it that Bucky opens his mouth before he thinks better of it. “You want to learn how to throw a real punch?” he asks.

Her whole face lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Just like my Pa taught me. Come on, I’ll show you.”

They spend all afternoon in the shade under the landing at Bucky’s folks’ apartment, walking through motions. She’s got all the enthusiasm in the world, so it doesn’t take long for Bucky to teach her what he’s learned about throwing his whole body into a punch, so that it actually lands with some force. She’s not going to knock anybody off their feet, but at least it’ll get her point across a little better.

Bucky’s arms and legs are sore that night when he goes to bed, but it’s completely worth it. The next time Ernie MacMillan starts something in front of them, Stevie doesn’t even hesitate. One swing, and she gives him a bloody nose.

Bucky buys her an ice cream later to celebrate. She makes him eat half of it, since he paid.

 

\--

 

Their ad hoc company successfully makes it back to Allied territory by dawn, without encountering any patrols. A quick conference between Stevie and the officers results in the decision to press on and get back to the forward camp as quickly as possible, rather than stay at the front and wait for a pickup. It’s another hour, maybe two, of steady marching, but the men are exuberant just from the prospect of returning somewhere familiar, if not exactly home. They’re determined to keep going.

Bucky waits until they’re just outside the camp perimeter, and then subtly shifts Stevie up to the head of the column so that she’s literally leading them in. He stays glued to her left side the entire time. He’s traded in his commandeered pistol for a captured HYDRA heavy-caliber, and he’s determined to walk into the camp under his own power, no matter how exhausted he is. He’s survived, and he’s going to have this one victory.

Someone must have alerted the camp, because when they break the tree cover there are already people streaming out of tents and shelters to gawk at them. Somebody starts a slow applause, and the rest of the crowd picks it up. It’s not a wild cheer, but a steady, respectful salute. They’re honoring the fallen, and welcoming home the lost.

Stevie makes straight for the surly form of a man in a colonel’s uniform, with graying hair and a stern expression. (This must be the aforementioned Colonel Phillips, operational head of the SSR and Stevie’s C.O. on paper, USO tour notwithstanding.)

When Stevie reaches him, she stands at attention and gives a sharp salute. “Some of these men need medical attention, sir.”

Bucky’s lips twitch in a wry smile. Isn’t that just like Stevie, worried about everybody else first.

Phillips waves absently in something that might be considered assent, and there’s a sudden flurry of activity to pull the worst wounded out of the trucks.

Stevie stays at attention. “I’d also like to present myself for disciplinary action.”

Bucky turns sharply. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that Stevie’s little costumed jaunt behind enemy lines hadn’t been authorized. It should have been obvious; she was supposed to be nothing but a chorus girl, a propaganda stunt. Why would the US Army let their only super soldier risk her life to save a couple hundred troops? Even if they didn’t want to use her in the field, she was a valuable symbol and useful to the war effort.

Phillips glances around the camp, at the subdued clapping and the three hundred dirty, ragged, relieved men that everyone had already written off as casualties, irretrievable. Bucky sees it in his eyes, the moment he makes his decision.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Captain,” Phillips says stiffly. He nods to let Stevie know she can drop the salute.

Stevie turns, and now she’s talking to somebody else—a female officer, it looks like, which is odd this close to the front—but Bucky’s not paying attention. He’s focused on what he just saw in the Colonel’s eyes, behind the annoyance and the grudging respect.

It was something ... _calculating_.

And right then, Bucky knows.

Never mind that she was acting against orders; this was Stevie’s trial run, and she’s passed with flying colors. The Strategic Scientific Reserve has the super soldier they always wanted, and she’s performed above and beyond expectations. They know what she can do, now. They know that she’s utterly wasted on the USO tour.

She’s not just a symbol, anymore. She’s a weapon.

They’re going to use her like one.

Bucky is terrified. There’s no getting out of this, now. No going back. No going home. Stevie has committed the cardinal sin for a soldier: she’s irreplaceable. Bucky can see it in the face of Colonel Phillips, hear it in the whispered questions and quiet exclamations of the staff aides all around him.

She’s not even Stevie anymore, not really, not to them. She’s _Captain America_.

Bucky can’t protect her, not from this. All he can do is remind them that, weapon or not, she’s still a symbol first. She’s earned the unconditional loyalty of an entire Allied company over the last two days, and he intends to use it to make his point.

Bucky spreads his hands, spins in a little circle to address the men around him, and yells, “Let’s hear it for Captain America!”

The camp explodes. People crash in toward Stevie, clapping her on the shoulder or back, chanting out _Captain! Captain! Captain!_ and cheering in the way they were too subdued to do for themselves. She’s not just a hero; she’s _their_ hero. They laugh and yell and whistle and clap, and it builds to a roar that could be heard from the other side of the camp.

Stevie glances at Bucky, almost knocked off-balance by the people pressing in to congratulate her. Her face is radiant, with a smile the likes of which he’s only rarely seen. This is everything she’s ever wanted, her chance to stand up and fight, to make a difference doing the right thing. This is her moment, one she’s going to remember for the rest of her life.

Bucky can’t ruin it for her, so he makes himself smile back, doing his best impression of _I’m so proud of you, Stevie._ It’s not even really false, because he is proud of her. More than he could ever say.

But the moment Stevie looks away, Bucky’s face falls.

He knows this is just the beginning.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick trigger warning for (very slight) racial issues. See end notes for specifics.

Bucky’s post-capture debrief takes place over the next three days. To say that it doesn’t go well is something of an understatement.

For one thing, Stevie’s been spirited away and locked into meetings with the upper brass, the kind of closed-door discussions that Bucky’s sergeant’s stripes aren’t enough to get him into. He knows that they’re trying to figure out the best way to use their shiny new war hero, and it bothers him that he can’t be there. It’s not that Stevie isn’t capable of holding her own—she’s automatically the most stubborn person in any given room—but he doesn’t like the idea of her going in without anybody who’s unequivocally on her side.

That puts him in a less cooperative mood to start with, and it just gets worse from there. For starters, he does _not_ want to go over the finer details of his time with Dr. Zola, but the intelligence officers and medical personnel won’t leave it alone.

He initially tries to claim that he doesn’t remember much, which is actually more or less true. That works all right until somebody mentions that Bucky is the only prisoner to go into the isolation ward, where the experiments were done, and come out alive.

One day Bucky’s going to figure out which of the former prisoners offered that little tidbit, and make his annoyance clear.

At that point, there’s no more dodging it. They’re determined to figure out what Zola did to him, and if Bucky can’t or won’t tell them, they’ll get their information another way.

Bucky gets sent back to medical. His first trip had been nothing more than a quick check immediately after they returned, to be sure he wasn’t bleeding or hiding any broken bones. Bucky had handled it just fine, with nothing more than gritted teeth and a stoic expression. They’d pronounced him fit for debriefing, and that was the end of it.

The second trip, a day later, is different. Now they want to study him, try to figure out which drugs Zola put in his system, and what the effects were on him, if any. They want to know what Zola was trying to accomplish, and if he succeeded.

Bucky tries to buckle down and suffer through it in silence, but the first time somebody comes at him with a needle, something inside him snaps. He’s not sure exactly what happens, because the next thing he remembers is his back pressed into the corner of the room, and a screaming medic at his feet. He’s broken the man’s arm, and the needle lies shattered on the floor.

They try to sedate him after that, which goes even more poorly. They end up having to call Stevie out of her upper-echelon meetings, afraid that Bucky might actually kill someone if they don’t. She talks him down, but even with her at his side, reassuring him that all they want to do is take a quick blood sample, Bucky still won’t let anybody put a needle in him. He just can’t.

Stevie offers to go first, to show him that they don’t mean any harm, but that backfires spectacularly. If he can’t handle a needle coming close to him, it’s somehow worse to watch one aiming for Stevie. He has a visceral reaction, his whole body swamped in pure terror. He jerks her away from the medic before he gets anywhere close to drawing blood, protective instincts screaming.

Then the medics suggest that Stevie attempt to get the blood sample herself. She’s skeptical, but agrees to give it a try. Only, as soon as Stevie touches his arm, needle in her other hand, Bucky starts to shake and hyperventilate. He’d have let her go through with it—he’d never have attacked her, no matter what—but she immediately backs off, apologetic. When the medics try to encourage her to do it anyway, she just shakes her head and refuses.

The medics confer for a little while. When they come back, they have a new idea: Since Stevie is the only one who can get close to Bucky safely, they ask her to hold him down while they get the samples they need. Bucky flinches as soon as he hears the words, because the very idea of being restrained like that, even by Stevie, makes him panic almost worse than the needle itself. (He has a flash of memory, of straps on a gurney, digging into his stomach and thighs, so tight that he can’t even thrash or writhe when the pain hits—)

His flinch must have been visible, because Stevie refuses again. She even goes a step further, and makes it very clear that nobody is going to do anything to Bucky without his permission. No restraints, no holding him down, no drugging him, not even any tricking or misleading or surprising him.

Some officers show up, and there’s a lot of shouting after that, about valuable contributions to the war effort and irreplaceable data and a responsibility to the scientific community. Or something along those lines. Bucky doesn’t really pay attention. He sits on a table off to the side, trying to get his shaking under control. Anyway, he always lets Stevie fight these sorts of battles—verbal ones, that is—without him. He only steps in when she’s about to get pummeled.

Then he remembers that she’s got a different body now, healthy and strong, and she doesn’t need him for that anymore.

Eventually, Stevie gets her way. (She usually does, one way or another.) The brass have decided that whatever they could learn from studying Bucky isn’t worth angering Captain America, not when they’re in the middle of negotiating how she’s going to work for them. They need her to cooperate, to balance her propaganda duties with real missions, and she’s made it clear where her priorities are.

They let him go, and Bucky sleeps for sixteen hours straight. He wakes up feeling human again, more or less. There’s still an inexplicable ache deep in his bones, but it’s slowly fading. He can deal with that, even if it never goes away completely. If a little lingering pain is the worst thing to come out of this ordeal, he’ll count himself lucky.

His appetite comes back with a vengeance, and the third day after being rescued he manages to demolish at least four full meals at the mess hall. Stevie joins him for one of them, laughing as they clean five plates between them. That’s how Bucky learns that her metabolism has been increased as a side-effect of her transformation.

He spends the rest of that day bouncing around from one interrogator ( _relax, Sergeant; it’s a debrief, not an interrogation_ ) to another, answering questions. If they can’t study him, they’ll work on dragging every last detail out of his memory. The more they poke and prod at him, the more Bucky starts to recall. He talks about the experiments as much as he’s able, from the colors of the drugs in their vials to how each one made him feel, after. (Hot, cold, blurry, sharp, loose, tight. Empty.)

That’s when the nightmares start, either because of the questions or just because he’s finally sleeping normally instead of passing out from exhaustion. He’s not the only rescued prisoner to have them, of course, but their nightly terrors are of cells and guard batons and people disappearing, one by one, never to be seen again. Bucky dreams of rough straps on a cold table, electrodes on his skin, the bite of a needle and his blood like flames, burning him alive from the inside out.

He wakes up screaming so loudly his throat burns, startling every man in his barracks. They splash some cold water on him and do their best to ignore him, but it doesn’t last. Somebody reports him after the fourth night, and Bucky is unceremoniously moved to a private tent near the edge of camp. It doesn’t stop the sound completely, but it dampens it. It lets people pretend they can’t hear him, at least.

The next night, when Bucky bolts upright in a cold sweat, half-screaming and half-crying, he finds Stevie holding him. She doesn’t ask him what he was dreaming about, or what happened to him in that place. She doesn’t even offer him the pointless platitudes he’s been getting from the medics, officers, and men in his barracks. She just pulls his head into her lap and runs her fingers through his hair, soft and sweet.

Bucky curls into her, some buried instinct recognizing her as safe, as _home_. He falls back asleep.

The nightmares don’t magically vanish, but at least when he shakes himself awake it’s to Stevie’s calming voice instead of his own ragged screams. It’s probably not worth the risk of somebody catching them (or the way he’s preventing Stevie from getting much sleep of her own), but just for this one night Bucky doesn’t care. For just one night, he’s going to let himself have this.

Just one, though. He won’t be the reason she gets caught.

When the debriefings are finally over, all the rescued men who haven’t been returned to their original units, plus Captain America, are released (remanded) to London. Bucky spends the ride and the first week of semi-leave unapologetically drinking anything and everything he can find.

He’s only really after enough of a buzz to dampen the persistent nightmares, but that seems like it takes more alcohol than it used to. He forgoes beer entirely, because he might as well be drinking water for all the effect it has on him. He needs the hard stuff to feel it at all, and even that doesn’t hit him like it should. It takes an entire bottle of whiskey to get him to sleep through a full night.

He’s never been skittish about alcohol or shy about drinking, but he’s never before crossed that invisible line that he associates with having a problem. For the first time, his desire to escape his life—even for a little while—overcomes his fear of turning into his father. He manages to stay deliciously non-sober for several days in a row, and sleeps better than he has since he first came to Europe.

That ends abruptly one morning at the end of their first week in London, when he’s bounced out of his cot (he’s back to sleeping in the barracks, now that he’s self-medicating away his nightmares) by an unsympathetic Timothy Dugan.

“What the hell?” Bucky snarls from where he’s landed on the floor, one hand on his pounding head.

Dugan stares at him for a moment. He’s a big, thick-chested private from Boston, several years older than Bucky and built like a boxer. He’d been in the 107th before they got captured by HYDRA, and he’s one of the few men from that regiment who survived long enough for Stevie to rescue them. He presumably got volunteered to deal with Bucky by the rest of the rescued prisoners, on the premise that he probably knows him better than anybody else who isn’t Captain America.

“You trying to kill yourself, Barnes?” Dugan asks him, mustache twitching in disapproval. “Because a bullet is a whole lot faster than alcohol poisoning, and there’s no shortage of Nazis who would be willing to oblige you.”

“No,” Bucky says. He tries to get his feet under him, but can’t quite manage it. He sits down on the floor instead. “And even if I was, it ain’t your business.”

Dugan lets out a disappointed huff. “It is when I have to tell the Captain that you’re not fit for duty.”

Bucky winces.

Nobody is supposed to know yet, but the military has the best (worst?) grapevine in the world. Rumor has it that the brass have finally decided to unleash Captain America on Schmidt and HYDRA, and Steve Rogers is being given leave to pick his own team. Everybody thinks that he’s going to choose from the prisoners he rescued, because there isn’t a one of them that wouldn’t follow him straight to the gates of hell after what he did.

And everyone who was actually there? Who witnessed the way Captain America tore through that base, asking everybody he met about one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, without any regard for anything else? Well, they all know that the Captain’s first pick is going to be his best friend, the man he risked everything to save in the first place.

“That’s not fair,” Bucky says, slurring his words only a little. “Using Stevie against me like that.”

Dugan’s bushy eyebrows slide up his forehead, toward his bowler hat. (Bucky belatedly remembers that he’s supposed to call her ‘Steve’ in front of other people. Or ‘Captain.’)

“I’ll go get him, if I have to,” Dugan warns. “Maybe he can knock some sense into you.”

He doesn’t leave to go get Stevie, though. Instead, he helps Bucky to his feet, points him in the direction of the nearest showers, and lets him know that ‘the guys’—the Allied company Stevie rescued, or at least the ones who are still in London and haven’t been reassigned yet—are meeting down at one of the local pubs that survived the Blitz. Talk among the troops says that tonight is when Captain America is going to ask for volunteers for his special squad.

“Be there,” Dugan tells him, just before shoving Bucky into the showers (clothes and all). “Don’t make the Captain come looking for you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says. He snatches a towel and tries to keep his balance now that he doesn’t have Dugan’s arm supporting him.

“And for God’s sake, Sarge,” Dugan adds, eyes narrowed in warning. “Be sober. He didn’t jump thirty miles behind enemy lines to save your life, just to watch you throw it away.”

 

\--

 

One winter, Stevie catches a cold.

Every winter, Stevie catches _something_ , but this one is different. It turns into a fever and a painful sore throat. Two weeks later, Stevie’s Ma—who’s a nurse—tells them that it’s Scarlet Fever. Bucky’s Ma—who isn’t a nurse, but sometimes acts like it—says that he can’t spend afternoons sitting with her on her bed like he always does, not until she gets better, for fear of him catching it.

Bucky goes anyway. He’s twelve, practically a man grown, and Scarlet Fever is a kids’ disease. Even Stevie, who’s only eleven, is a little old for it. She’s so tiny and frail that it must have thought she was younger.

Bucky hates when Stevie is sick because her eyes get glassy and she has no energy to run around with him and get into trouble. (Not that there’s ever all that much running involved, seeing as how she gets an asthma attack from going up and down a couple flights of stairs.) Still, sometimes it’s nice when it’s cold outside to curl up under a quilt and let Stevie put her head on his shoulder or in his lap while he reads out from her school books. When she’s running a fever her eyes don’t always work right, so Bucky keeps her caught up.

Three weeks in, though, Bucky starts to get worried. Stevie hasn’t been sick this long all at once since she got pneumonia and had to go to the hospital. She’s losing what little weight she had on her bony frame, and her fever won’t go away. It’s baking her skin, making it flake and peel. Her pretty blonde hair is lank and sweat-damp and lies in curls across her forehead. Her cheeks are too pink, unnatural. Some days she doesn’t wake up but maybe once or twice the whole time he’s there, for hours and hours, and he has to read out loud just to himself.

Bucky wants his Stevie back.

One day Stevie doesn’t wake up at all. Bucky’s Ma comes to fetch him home (she gave up on keeping him away the third time he snuck out his window, and has decided that watching him is the easiest way to keep him healthy), but Bucky won’t leave. He’s staying until Stevie wakes up, so he can say hello. They haven’t gone an entire day without speaking to each other since they met, save for that trip his folks made him take to visit his grandparents in Indiana last year.

In the kitchen, Stevie’s Ma is crying. Bucky’s Ma gives her a hug and rubs little circles on her back. She decides to stay here tonight, and she says that Bucky can, too.

Bucky falls asleep curled up on the covers of Stevie’s bed, one of her hands in his own.

He wakes up around midnight, when Stevie’s Ma comes in to try to wake her up and get her to drink some cool water. It doesn’t work, and her hands are shaking as she turns around.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Rogers,” Bucky says. He hasn’t let go of Stevie’s hand all night. “She’s going to wake up soon.”

“I hope so, sweetheart,” Stevie’s Ma says. (She doesn’t believe in lying, which is where Bucky reckons Stevie got it from.)

“I’ll let you know,” Bucky promises. “As soon as she wakes up, I’ll come tell you.”

She kisses his forehead before she leaves. “Thank you for watching over her, James.”

At dawn, Stevie’s Ma and Bucky’s Ma are joined in the kitchen by Father Donnelly. Stevie’s Ma is crying again, and when the old buzzard comes into the bedroom and starts to read Stevie her last rites, Bucky wants to punch him right in his ugly nose.

He shouldn’t be here; Stevie is going to be _fine_. Bucky’s not going to let anything happen to her. Ever since he pulled her out of that first alley, all bloody knuckles and scuffed-up knees, he’s been looking out for her. She’s his best friend.

He leans over while the priest is still chanting, ignoring the watching adults, and kisses her forehead right where her Ma had kissed him a few hours ago. “Don’t worry, Stevie,” he says, not much louder than a whisper. He presses his forehead against hers, like maybe he can make her hear him if he thinks loud enough. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you, not while I’m around.”

Father Donnelly finishes his prayers and crosses himself. He goes back out to wait in the kitchen, and Bucky’s Ma tries to get Bucky to leave, too. She tells him that Stevie’s Ma might want to be alone with her daughter, for a little while.

Bucky turns his best blue-eyed hopeful look on Stevie’s Ma, and she doesn’t even make him ask.

“I think Stephanie would rather you be here,” Stevie’s Ma says. She’s almost smiling. “If it’s all right with you, of course, Martha.”

Bucky’s Ma sighs. “I don’t think I can keep him away without tying him up or locking him in the closet,” she admits. “Even then I’m not sure he wouldn’t find a way. He wants to be here.”

“Then he’s welcome to stay,” Stevie’s Ma says. She wipes at her cheeks and tries to smile at Bucky. “Maybe Steph can tell you’re here. She’d like that, I think. To have a friend with her.”

Bucky’s Ma does go home, but she keeps coming back every couple of hours. (One time, she brings his Pa with her, but they only stay long enough to say he was sorry Stevie was so sick, and ask if there was anything Stevie’s Ma needed.) Every time, his Ma asks Bucky if he’s ready to come home.

Every time, Bucky says no. He doesn’t leave that bedroom for the next eighteen hours, except to eat something real quick and go to the bathroom, and to help Stevie’s Ma with the dishes at dinner, because that would just be rude if he didn’t. Other people come in and out, but he makes them move around him. His spot is right there on Stevie’s bed, holding her hand.

When Stevie wakes up a day later—woozy and dehydrated and still very sick, even if everyone says that she’s pulled through the dangerous part—Bucky makes sure that his smile is the first thing she sees.

 

\--

 

The pub is dark, and smells of smoke and sweat and burnt copper. Bucky is sitting at the bar in a corner, back to the main room, nursing a drink he doesn’t actually taste. Behind him, Stevie is making her case to her final choices. She’s narrowed it down to five men, including a Brit (James Falsworth) and a Frenchman (Jacques Dernier). The other three are Americans: Jim Morita, who was in Bucky’s cell in the prison camp (and caught some flak from the others for his Japanese features), a Negro by the name of Gabe Jones that Bucky hasn’t talked to yet, and none other than Timothy Dugan from the old 107th.

Even from the corner of his eyes, Bucky can tell that Stevie’s nervous as she starts in on her recruitment speech. It’s obvious in the way that she’s conspicuously _not_ fidgeting. It’s absurd, because the entire bar would join her special team in a heartbeat. Anybody who isn’t sitting at that table already is jealous or disappointed (or Bucky). No one is going to turn her down.

Bucky slowly rotates his glass on the dark, mottled wood grain. It leaves behind a ring of condensation that rapidly dissipates in the warm night. A few seconds later, there’s no sign his glass was ever there. He isn’t normally a maudlin drunk (and he isn’t even drinking) but it makes him think, about marks in sand that fade into nothingness, washed away when the tide changes. Time erases everything, in the end.

Bucky stares into the amber liquid that he isn’t drinking, and wonders if he’s fading away. He wonders if there’ll be anything left of the Brooklyn boy who went to war, when this is over. He already feels lost, most of the time. A pale imitation of himself. If he slipped away, would he notice?

Would Stevie?

Some things never change, though, like the way Bucky automatically turns when he hears Stevie coming up behind him. He’s drawn to her, forever caught in her gravity, helplessly pulled along in her wake. There was a time when he never wanted to be anywhere else. Now he doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t even know if he wants anything at all.

He smiles by reflex, and hopes she can’t see the way it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey.”

Stevie looks happy. It’s a smaller, more intimate version of her triumph when she led the rescued men back into camp. “That went better than I expected,” she says.

Bucky snorts and pushes at his glass, sliding it back and forth across the table. Of course Stevie is the only one who doubted for a second that the men would follow her. “I told you,” he says. “They’re all crazy.”

Stevie studies him for a moment as she sits down, taking the bar stool next to him. “What about you?” she asks, quietly and a little too serious for his liking. Her mouth tilts, self-deprecating. “You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

“Hell no,” Bucky says instantly. He sees her face start to fall, just for the briefest instant, before he continues, “That little punk from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”

She lowers her eyes at that, embarrassed. She gives him a soft, fond look that’s only half-hidden by her dropped head.

It allows Bucky to center himself, because this is all he needs. Even if he doesn’t know himself anymore—doesn’t _trust_ himself anymore—he doesn’t have to, as long as Stevie can look at him like that. She looks at him like he’s worth something, like he means something, and that’s enough for him.

He smirks, because it’s his job to make jokes when things get too serious, and leans forward conspiratorially. “You’re keeping the outfit, though, right?”

Stevie looks thoughtful. “You know?” she says, smiling. “It’s kind of growing on me.”

The bartender puts down a tray of drinks in front of her, and Stevie carries it back over to her table of new recruits. She passes the beers out to a round of cheers.

Bucky goes back to staring at his drink.

Stevie keeps drifting between bar and table for the rest of the evening, carrying empty glasses one direction and new drinks the other. Around them, the bar slowly starts to empty out. Many of the disappointed hopefuls who didn’t make the team have long since left to drown their sorrows in another establishment, where they won’t have to listen to raucous celebrating of the five who did.

“Come on, Buck,” Stevie says at one point, waiting for the bartender to refill her tray, again. (Just how much are they going to drink before the night is over? And Dugan had the nerve to chide Bucky about being sober tonight.) She claps him on the shoulder, jarring him slightly because she’s so much stronger than either of them remember. “You should drink with them. You know, make friends.”

Bucky shrugs and continues to rotate his glass. The bartender has long since given up on trying to get him anything else.

“Bucky,” Stevie says, pleading.

Bucky gives her a tired smile. “Dugan and Morita already know me; Dugan from the 107th, and Morita and I were in the same cell and work crew, before.” He doesn’t continue. Stevie already knows what goes in that gap, what words he won’t say. “Falsworth is a lieutenant, but you set up the team with me as your second-in-command, as an NCO. That basically busts him back down to Private.”

“I trust you,” Stevie says instantly. “I’m sure he’s capable, but you’ll know what I’m thinking before I say it. That could make a difference, in the field.”

Bucky waves her off. “That’s not the point. I’m sure he understands that. But if he’s going to follow orders from me, I need to earn his respect. That won’t happen until we go on a mission and he sees how I perform under pressure.”

Stevie doesn’t look particularly happy about it, but she nods. “All right, then. What about Dernier and Jones?”

He taps his fingers on the table. “Dernier understands English just fine, but either can’t or won’t speak it, so any conversation with him is going to be a little one-sided. And Jones is going to get along just fine with anybody who doesn’t take issue with his skin color.”

Stevie gives him one of her disappointed looks. “I just think you ought to be friendly with them, Buck. These are the guys we’re going to trust to have our back. I’d think it would be good if they actually, you know, _liked_ us first.”

“That’s your area,” Bucky says, sitting back slightly from the bar. “I’m a sniper. I’m supposed to be scary, and a little aloof.”

Stevie frowns.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“You, scary,” Stevie says, shaking her head. “I have a hard time with that one.”

Bucky smiles, but it’s cold and predatory and aimed at his drink, not at her. “You’ve never seen me with a rifle,” he says flatly.

Stevie looks like she doesn’t know quite what to say to that.

Luckily, the budding unease between them is interrupted by something that thoroughly distracts them both: Across the bar, headed for Stevie like a bullet, is a gorgeous dame in a knockout red dress. She’s wearing high heels with drawn-on nylons, and her dark hair is elegantly styled into soft waves. She has curves in all the right places and carries herself with an air of confidence and authority that Bucky appreciates. He lets out a low whistle, just loud enough for Stevie to hear him.

Bucky isn’t the only one who’s seen her, of course. Around them, the bar goes almost silent.

“It’s Peggy,” Stevie hisses under her breath. She looks at least half-terrified. “Be nice.”

Bucky grins.

 

\--

 

The second time that Bucky kisses Stevie, he’s fifteen years old. (On the forehead when she was sick doesn’t count, because that was different, and anyway she was asleep at the time.)

It’s a Friday night, and for the first time in his life Bucky Barnes is getting drunk. The day before, he had swiped a little bottle of liquor from Old Man Fulton down the street, who bought from the bootleggers and distributed to the neighborhood at a friendly markup.

Stevie had been reluctant from the start, of course, not because she had anything against alcohol in general but because it was illegal. Bucky had only gotten her to come along due to the technicality that _drinking_ alcohol was perfectly fine; it was selling or transporting it that was a crime. It didn’t even count as buying, because Bucky had nicked it while Old Man Fulton wasn’t paying attention, and therefore hadn’t paid for it.

They go out to the park behind Bucky’s apartment building, with a single old lamp between them and a couple of blankets. It’s October, so the nights are starting to get chilly, but it’s not too bad. They huddle up together on the grass, sitting on one blanket and sharing the other, and pass the contraband bottle back and forth.

Stevie doesn’t end up drinking much of it, which is how Bucky ends up pretty far gone by the time the little bottle is empty. That’s good though, because even at fourteen years old Stevie is still tiny and scrawny, and she’s only two weeks out of her last bout with the flu. It’s probably not a good idea for her to drink too much, so Bucky doesn’t complain.

She’s got enough in her to ward off the worst of the night’s chill, though, and that’s kind of a shame. It means Bucky doesn’t have an excuse to put his arm around her and pull her close, which is something he’s just recently decided he likes doing whenever there’s a good opportunity. It’s just, she fits so nicely under his arm, always just the right height even though they’ve done a fair bit of growing since they met six years ago. (Well, Bucky’s grown. Stevie is still so _tiny_. It’s _adoarable_.)

Stevie smacks him, and Bucky thinks maybe he said that last part out loud by accident.

They sit there together under the Brooklyn stars—

(“Don’t be silly, Bucky; they’re everybody’s stars. Not like you can only see them here.”

“Well, we’re in Brooklyn, ain’t we? So these are our stars.”)

—and talk about everything, and nothing.

They start with school, and whether or not Bucky is going to stick with it all the way through graduation. Stevie thinks he should get a diploma, if he could, but of course Stevie would think that. She likes school, always has. Bucky doesn’t much see the point.

Sooner or later his Pa is going to put his foot down about helping out for real around the garage, or else he’s going to get kicked out of the house altogether. Bucky doesn’t need two more years of school to do the job his Pa taught him when he was eleven, and even if he wins that argument and gets a job elsewhere, a diploma won’t help him find work down at the docks or on a factory floor. Seems like a big waste of time, to him.

Stevie, on the other hand, should definitely stay in school. Just because she enjoys it, if nothing else. But she’s smart, too, and even if there was no way her Ma could ever afford to send her to one of those women’s colleges, she ought to learn as much as she can in the meantime.

“I don’t want to go to one of those colleges for girls,” Stevie says frankly. She’s leaning back against her palms, head tipped back, looking at the stars.

Bucky’s just lucid enough to realize that he’s staring at her, and just drunk enough not to care if she catches him doing it. “So what do you want to do?” he asks.

She shrugs. “You mean, if we had the money?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” Stevie says. She tilts her head sideways to look at him. “Art school, maybe. If I could find one that would take me, and we could afford it.”

Bucky thinks he should have guessed that. It’s one of the few ways Stevie can help out her Ma, by sketching portraits of rich folks or tourists in the park for a nickel a piece in the summertime. He’s never really seen her sketchbook, the one she carries around everywhere, because she’s shy about it, but her portraits are really good.

(Bucky has one of his Ma, one of his Pa, one of the three of them together, and one of Bucky by himself in his room. He didn’t really need them, but it was one of the only ways he could get Stevie to take money from him without kicking up a fuss about it. Even then, she had tried to do them for free, saying it was just practice. She’ll take supplies, though, so Bucky often drops by with a new charcoal pencil or two.)

“Art school,” Bucky says, mulling it over. “Okay.”

Stevie kicks his ankle under the blanket. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Bucky says. “Look, we’ll find a way to make it work, all right?”

She gives him a skeptical look.

“No, I mean it. Listen.” Bucky sits up straighter and gestures her closer, even though she’s already got her hip pressed up against his. “Listen. You’ll be sketching in the park one day, and somebody rich is going to see you and realize just how good you are.”

Stevie flushes across her pale cheeks. It’s very pretty in the light from their lamp.

“And then,” Bucky says, punctuating his point with the hand he’s still using to gesture wildly about, “they’ll give you money for art school. You’ll ace it, and people will come from all over to buy your—uh—sketches?”

“I’d like to learn to paint,” Stevie says softly.

“Paintings!” Bucky says. “They’ll buy your paintings, and you’ll be rich. And famous.” He grins at her. “It’ll be great. You’ll never have to worry about money again.”

Stevie hums in mock-agreement. “And where will you be, while I’m off being a rich and famous woman painter, Mr. Barnes?”

“Mooching off you, of course,” Bucky says instantly. “You’ll let me sleep on your couch, right? You wouldn’t forget about your old pal Bucky, even when everybody knows your name.”

“Of course not,” Stevie says. She sounds almost upset, like he’s offended her by asking. “Bucky and Stevie, yeah? Can’t let that change.”

“Bucky and Stevie,” Bucky agrees, because he likes the sound of that just as much tonight as he did at nine years old. “Always.”

Their talk drifts after that. Baseball, and if Brooklyn (they’re the Dodgers now, not the Robins) are going to make a good run next year. Whether Governor Roosevelt is going to win the election, and if he can really get the economy back on track after the market crash ruined everything. Whether or not they’re going to go see the new picture sometime this month, and if it’ll be better or worse than that jungle movie _—Tarzan the Ape Man_ , Stevie reminds him—that they saw at the beginning of the summer.

It’s late by then, and even though Bucky is oddly reluctant to get up, Stevie chivvies him upright and walks him home. His feet are all funny and not moving the right way, so she tucks up under one of his shoulders, one arm around his waist, and guides him down the street. (Bucky keeps stumbling, just a little, even after he works his feet out, because he doesn’t want her to let go.)

They go up to Bucky’s apartment, even though he tries to be a gentleman and walk her home first. Stevie won’t hear of it, though, saying that Bucky would end up falling asleep on a street corner or under some stairs if he had to walk back to his place by himself. In typical Stevie fashion, she just out-stubborns him until she gets her way. (She doesn’t have to fight so hard; Bucky will always give her what she wants. Anything she wants, in the whole world.)

When they get up to the landing outside his apartment, Stevie props Bucky up against the wall, puts the lamp and blankets down next to him, and starts rifling through his pockets looking for his key. Her tiny hands are deft as she goes from one pocket to another, face scrunched up in concentration, because she’s not anywhere near as drunk as Bucky but she _did_ help him empty that bottle.

Bucky starts listing sideways against the wall, so he puts out his hands. They fall on Stevie’s shoulders, and she takes a moment to steady him.

“You okay, Buck?” she asks, looking up at him.

Bucky nods. His head tips down toward her.

Stevie tilts her head back automatically, probably assuming that he’s going to touch their foreheads together, the way he always does when he has something important to say. Maybe that had been the original plan; Bucky’s not sure. Before he quite knows what he’s doing, he’s pressing a kiss to her mouth instead.

Or at least, he tries. He is, after all, very drunk for the first time in his life. He doesn’t yet have any experience in maneuvering under the influence. He ends up mostly kissing just her bottom lip and a bit of her jaw instead, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He got a good set of kissing lessons from Marlene Jacobs last spring, so at least he knows what he’s about, this time.

Stevie goes kind of still in front of him, like she doesn’t know what to do. When Bucky pulls back a little, trying to gauge her reaction, she shakes her head at him.

“Your breath smells awful,” she tells him.

Bucky blinks.

Stevie goes right back to searching through his pockets like nothing happened. She comes up with his key a moment later, and steps away from him to unlock the door. She manages it on the second try, and then drops the key back into the pocket where she found it.

Bucky belatedly reaches for her, but she’s already slipped too far away, and his hand misses.

“Drink some water before you pass out,” Stevie says. She has that look on her face that means she’s being very serious, even though she’s sort of forgotten why. “Ma said that was important.”

Bucky blinks again. “Okay.”

Stevie gives him a little shove through the door, almost making him stumble, and places the lamp and blankets into his arms. “See you tomorrow?” she asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says.

“Night,” Stevie says, like always, and shuts the door in his face.

Bucky wakes up the next morning with a headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and a lingering sense of unease in his stomach. The first two he attributes to the alcohol, and the last to the failed kiss. He gets himself all worked up to make an apology, because Stevie clearly didn’t appreciate it.

When he sees her that afternoon, though, she doesn’t seem mad at him. What’s more, there’s nothing awkward or strained about them at all. Bucky rapidly abandons his apology plan in favor of just forgetting that it ever happened.

They never do talk about it.

 

\--

 

Agent Margaret Carter, of the Strategic Scientific Reserve Special Operations Division, has come to the bar with news. Apparently Howard Stark (yes, _that_ one) has been working on some new equipment for Captain America’s special team, and he wants Stevie to come give her opinions first thing in the morning.

Stevie agrees to do so, bright and early.

Bucky watches them from off to the side, eyes flicking back and forth between them. It’s obvious that Agent Carter’s stated reason is nothing more than pretense, at _best_. She’s really come here for Stevie, hence the incredible red dress. She couldn’t be more obvious if she tried.

Stevie, typically, doesn’t seem to understand this. Or if she does, she’s not confident enough to do anything about it.

Bucky, good friend that he is, does his level best to flirt with Agent Carter to alleviate the tension. He’s soundly ignored for his efforts.

Stevie is staring after Agent Carter as she walks away, mouth slightly agape. Carter left them with a not-at-all subtle comment about waiting ‘for the right partner.’ It’s just barely one step removed from saying ‘for you, Captain Rogers.’

Bucky sticks his hands in his pockets. “Huh,” he says. “I’m invisible.”

Stevie gives him a questioning look.

“I’m turning into you,” Bucky jokes, deadpan. “It’s like a horrible nightmare.”

Stevie finally cracks a smile. “Cheer up, Buck,” she says, suddenly chipper. “Maybe she’s got a friend.”

“You really like her, don’t you?” Bucky asks.

Stevie shrugs a bit, but the hint of color in her cheeks and the way she ducks her head a bit tells him he’s on the right track.

“Come on,” Bucky encourages. “Tell me.”

Stevie gets a far-off look in her eyes. “She saw me,” she says. “She looked at me when I was still skinny and useless, and she saw me anyway.”

Bucky punches her lightly in the arm, still not used to doing that at his own level instead of having to reach down. “Skinny, yes,” he says. “You were never useless, though.”

“Everyone else thought so,” Stevie says. It comes out matter-of-fact, not bitter, because one thing Stevie Rogers never indulged was self-pity. “Everybody except you. Then a doctor from Queens by way of Germany. And her.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Well, what are you doing wasting time with me and Captain America’s new recruits, then?” he asks her. “Go after her.”

Stevie suddenly gets awkward, crossing her arms over her chest and fidgeting. “I really should be here,” she says. “We’ll get our first assignment in a couple of weeks, at the latest, and we’ve got some training to do ...”

Bucky gives her a flat look. “Nobody’s doing any training tonight. The rest of the new team is about three gallons of beer too drunk for that. Which, conveniently, rules out tomorrow as well, at least in the morning.”

Stevie chews on her bottom lip. It’s as cute now as it was they day they met. “I think ... I mean, I’m not sure, but I think she’s seeing Stark.”

“Stevie,” Bucky says, smiling. “She wore that red dress for you. She wants you to go after her.”

Stevie brightens a little. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “And I know you want to. So just go.”

Stevie continues to fidget. “I don’t know. It seems like a bad idea.”

“You said she was there, right? For the procedure?” Bucky lowers his voice just enough so that nobody can overhear and wonder what he’s talking about. “So you don’t have to worry about her getting too close and figuring it out. She already knows, and she’s still interested.”

Stevie gets a goofy sort of smile on her face. “I don’t think it made the slightest bit of difference to her, when she found out. Treated me exactly the same.”

Bucky slaps her on the back. “See? I knew it. You’re totally head-over-heels for this gal, aren’t you?”

“Well,” Stevie says quickly. “I mean, she’s swell, but we haven’t—I mean, we never even—”

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice drops even further. “Don’t forget. I know what you look like, when you’re in love.”

“Yeah,” Stevie says, just as quiet. There’s a note of sadness in it. “You do.”

“So go get her,” Bucky repeats. “Don’t make me tell you again, punk.”

“Jerk,” Stevie says automatically. She throws her arms around Bucky’s shoulders in a gruff, manly hug (because people are watching them, and it would look odd for her to touch her forehead to his the way they normally would), and uses it as a cover to whisper in his ear, “Still my guy, Buck?”

“Like you’re going to get rid of me that easy,” Bucky replies. He speaks at normal volume, because that’s just the sort of thing a soldier might say to his best friend who’s ditching him for a pretty lady. “I want all the details, in the morning.”

“ _Bucky_!” Stevie says, scandalized. “I’m just going to talk to her!”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Have fun.”

Stevie walks off toward where Agent Carter disappeared, shaking her head.

Bucky waits until she’s almost at the door before lifting his glass in a salute. “Good luck, Captain!” he yells at the top of his lungs. “Go get her!”

The bar erupts into cheers, and the last thing he sees is Stevie rolling her eyes at him as she slips through the doorway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for possible racial issues: In this chapter, Bucky mentally uses the period-accurate term “Negro” to refer to Gabe Jones, and implies verbally that Gabe has probably dealt with past prejudice in the US Army, and will likely face more now that he has volunteered to serve on an integrated team. (Historically, US Army units were not integrated until after WWII.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for implied rape / non-con elements, and racism issues. See end notes for details.

Stevie hauls Bucky out of his cot the next morning entirely too early, considering how late it was when he finally left the pub last night. Luckily, he doesn’t have a hangover, because Dugan had more-or-less shamed him into being sober for a while. Unfortunately, the lack of alcohol in his system meant the nightmares came back. A hangover might have been easier to work around than an almost complete lack of sleep altogether. At least he’d managed not to wake up screaming and bother everybody else in his barracks.

“Steve,” Bucky mumbles, remembering this time to use the male form of her name. He’s trying, unsuccessfully, to fend off the too-large, too-strong hands that are pulling him upright. “What time is it?”

“After 0900,” Stevie says, no sympathy in her voice. In fact, she sounds excited. “Come on, get up! I want to show you something.”

Bucky pouts, in the way that only James Barnes can, but he gets up.

(He ignores the snickering and hidden smiles from the other men around the room, who are watching with barely concealed amusement. It’s not every day they get to see Captain America roughhousing with his sergeant.)

“Coffee,” Bucky says flatly as he pulls on his uniform jacket, which was the only piece of clothing he’d discarded before falling into his cot last night. He should probably also lace up his boots. “You looking this chipper is going to require coffee for me to deal with you.”

Stevie produces a pouch of instant coffee out of a pocket in her Army uniform. That must be a perk of being a commissioned officer. (Not that Bucky’s jealous or anything. He’s _not_. Not even if Stevie jumped about a dozen ranks ahead of him based on a stage name, when he earned his sergeant’s stripes the hard way. She deserves it, if not before the rescue then certainly after.)

Bucky’s halfway through the little cup of coffee—cold, which doesn’t do it any favors, but he’s not exactly drinking it for the taste anyway—before he notices the giant metal disc Stevie is carrying around. He rubs at his face, but it doesn’t go away. He puts down his battered, dented cup and stares.

“What is that?” Bucky asks.

Stevie grins, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “It’s a shield,” she says, as if that explains anything. “To replace the one from the old costume.” She hefts it, beaming like a lunatic. “Stark made it for me. It’s vibranium, which is apparently really rare.”

Bucky continues to stare. “It’s, uh, shiny?” he offers. He’s not sure what else to say.

“I think I might paint it,” Stevie says thoughtfully, like she hadn’t even heard him. “Anyway, it deflects bullets. That’s why I need you.” She gestures urgently toward the exit. “We’re going to the shooting range.”

Bucky is _still_ staring. He thinks he needs about three more cups of coffee before he’s ready for this.

“Come on,” Stevie says, impatient. “I want you to shoot at me.”

“What?”

Stevie grins again, wide and joyous. Before Bucky can say anything else, she’s already turning around and heading for the door. He has no choice but to follow her, trailing her through the bustling London base.

“You want me to _what_?” Bucky tries again.

Stevie rolls her eyes. “You’re supposed to be a crack shot, aren’t you? Or so I hear, anyway.”

Bucky reminds himself that Stevie still hasn’t seen him with a rifle. For a moment, he’s suddenly struck by the certainty that he doesn’t want her to, even though she’ll need a thorough understanding of his limits and abilities if she’s going to use him effectively in the field.

“Come on, Buck,” Stevie says. “I have to test the shield out somehow. I want you to shoot me.”

Bucky stops dead, forcing Stevie to halt and turn to face him. “I am _not_ going to shoot you!”

It comes out a little louder than he really intended. Half the nearby base personnel stop in their morning activities to stare at them.

“Shoot _at_ me,” Stevie corrects, shrugging her broad shoulders. “Or, actually, at the shield.”

“No,” Bucky says, still incredulous. “I’m not going to shoot at you, or near you, or around you. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

“Of course,” Stevie says immediately. “Why do you think I’m asking you?”

Bucky crosses his arms. “If I say no, you’re just going to go find somebody else, aren’t you?”

Stevie shifts her weight from foot to foot, a little guiltily. “Well, Peggy—Agent Carter, I mean—already, um. Demonstrated. That the shield can stop bullets.”

Bucky rubs at the bridge of his nose. Why does being around Stevie these days always seem to give him a headache? “While you were holding it?”

Stevie nods.

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” Bucky says. “How badly did you mess up last night?”

“No, it wasn’t—” Stevie swallows. “It was this morning.” She looks halfway between mortified and deeply, deeply impressed. “She thought—well, she saw—anyway, she made her point. But I’m sure she’d shoot at me again if I asked nicely.”

Bucky tenses all over at the thought. Stevie, in somebody’s cross-hairs, with only a thin disc of metal to protect her. A finger on the trigger that _isn’t his_. “Absolutely not,” he says.

Stevie cocks her head mock-thoughtfully. “Peggy’s a fantastic shot, though,” she says, egging him on. “You know, she once shot a cab driver right in the head from maybe fifty yards away? With a pistol?”

Bucky’s voice turns into a growl. “Nobody is shooting at you except me,” he says. “I don’t care how good a shot they are.”

“Well,” Stevie says, drawing the word out. “You don’t seem all that keen, Buck. Maybe I should—”

“Like hell,” Bucky snaps. If she’s going to do something this stupid, he’s damn well going to make sure that he’s the one keeping her safe. “No one but me, understood?”

“Understood, Sergeant,” Stevie says. There’s a satisfied glint in her eye, the little punk. “Although I can’t speak for HYDRA. I have a feeling they’ll be doing a lot of shooting at me, sooner or later.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Bucky promises, a dark edge in his tone. He’s already walking toward the range, and he has to turn back over his shoulder to say, “You coming or what?”

Stevie grins at him one more time. “Right behind you, Buck.”

 

\--

 

The first time that Bucky Barnes kills a man, he’s in a nameless field somewhere in Europe. He’s twenty-five, and he does it with a sniper rifle. He hesitates for the briefest instant before he pulls the trigger, and he sees the man crumple to the ground in his dreams for weeks.

The first time that Bucky _tries_ to kill a man, he’s in a dark street behind a cheap bar in Brooklyn. He’s seventeen, and he goes after the guy with his bare hands. He never loses a moment of sleep over it, over what he almost did. Sometimes he even thinks back on it, and wishes that he hadn’t let the guy live.

It happens like this.

It’s a Friday night, and Bucky’s been working extra hours down at the docks all week because Stevie’s birthday is coming up and he wants to be able to afford a nice leather-bound sketchbook portfolio thing like all the real art students have. Stevie would tell him it was a waste of money, that he should save it instead and put it back for the day he moves out of his parents’ place. (Having him and his Pa under the same roof after Bucky made it clear he was _never_ coming to work in the garage is a recipe for disaster, and none of them can take much more of it. It’s past time for him to be out on his own.)

It being a Friday night, and Bucky having gotten paid, he pulls aside the money to help with the rent, food for the week, and Stevie’s present before putting the rest in his pockets and showing up on Stevie’s Ma’s doorstep. They go out to celebrate the end of another long, hard week.

It isn’t something that Stevie enjoys that much, he knows, but she does it for him. He always has more fun when she comes along, so they end up at a cheap bar that Bucky knows. The proprietor is so excited by the end of Prohibition that he couldn’t care less about a legal drinking age. There’s a three-person band in the corner, and the crowd is mostly young people out to have a good time, no matter how shitty the rest of the world is.

Bucky loves it.

He’s somewhere between his fourth and fifth beers, and his ninth or tenth dance partner, when he notices that he hasn’t seen Stevie in a while. She likes to sit in a quiet corner and sketch faces from the crowd, usually. Bucky leaves her to it, only going over to keep her company every once in a while. She swears she likes it that way, that she enjoys watching him have fun, so he does. He keeps an eye on her, though, and she’s been gone from her table for a while now.

Bucky isn’t one to jump to conclusions. She might have gone to the ladies’ room. She might have stepped outside for some fresh air, if the cigarette smoke is bothering her asthma. (She usually comes to get him when that happens, though, just in case it blows up into a full attack and she needs someone to calm her down.) She might have found a dance partner, unlikely as that seems after all the times she’s turned Bucky down.

He gives it five minutes and one more dance, but when she still isn’t back in her seat—or anywhere else in the bar that he can see—Bucky tosses back the last of his current beer and excuses himself from his latest partner with an apologetic kiss. He knows right where to start looking.

Bucky thinks sometimes that he either learned or was lucky enough to be born with a sixth sense about Stevie and trouble. He must have pulled her out of a hundred fights over the years, and he always seems to show up at just the right moment. It has to be after Stevie’s got in a few good licks, so that she doesn’t feel like he’s trying to fight her battles for her, but before she gets really hurt. This is one area in which her being so small and a girl comes in handy; people tend to underestimate her, or pull their punches.

This time, he’s just a minute or two late.

When Bucky goes out the back door, he sweeps his eyes around the dark, narrow back-street. In a corner, up against a brick retaining wall, there’s a well-built guy maybe a couple years older than Bucky and a little well-dressed for a place like this. His hair is slicked back, he’s got on a suit jacket, and his shoes are shiny in the moonlight. He smells like whiskey and aftershave and smoke from the bar. He’s speaking, but it’s too quiet for Bucky to hear him from behind.

Bucky has to take another step closer before he realizes that the man has Stevie pinned against the wall. One hand is in her long hair, pulling her head back to bare her throat, and the other has a tight grip on both her thin wrists. There’s nothing she can do in that position, held down by somebody much taller and stronger and heavier, trapping her against the wall. She’s struggling as much as she can, but she can’t get any leverage and she isn’t strong enough to break free.

“Hey!” Bucky yells.

The man doesn’t so much as flinch, but Stevie’s eyes dart away from the man’s face and over to where Bucky is standing. She looks furious, which is to be expected, and scared, which isn’t. Stevie Rogers isn’t afraid of anything.

Bucky’s pulling the guy back and throwing a punch before he even realizes that he’s moved.

The man takes it on the side of the jaw and lets go of Stevie’s wrists to steady himself against the wall. Stevie immediately twists and jabs her elbow into his stomach, making him curse. He shoves at her, and Stevie crashes into the brick wall shoulder-first, hard enough to bounce back off. Bucky catches her and steadies her on her feet by his side.

The man straightens up from where Stevie’s blow had doubled him over, one hand on his ribs where her elbow connected. “Damn,” he spits, looking at Bucky. “She yours? Because you really ought to teach your little bitch some better manners.”

Bucky feels his blood heating up, but he waits for half a breath. Stevie usually likes to handle these sorts of things herself, and she doesn’t need Bucky stepping in unless she’s outmatched in a physical fight. If he tried to defend her honor with her standing right here, she’d probably smack him.

When she doesn’t say anything, though, Bucky glances over just long enough to see that her breathing is labored. She’s got one hand on the wall and the other pressed to her chest, and there’s a slight wheezing sound coming from the back of her throat. Whatever she got into with this guy, it’s triggered a mild asthma attack. It’s not serious, nothing Bucky needs to drop everything and worry over, but she nods at him as if to say _It’s all right; you take this one._

So Bucky turns his attention back to the man. “She isn’t _mine_ , you asshole,” Bucky says, voice clipped and cold. “She’s not a thing. She can’t belong to somebody.”

The man snorts. “Well no wonder she’s got such a high opinion of herself, if you let her think like that.”

Bucky almost wants to laugh. As if he’s ever _let_ Stevie Rogers do a single thing in his life. He argues against some of her dumber ideas, of course, but that’s never once stopped her. He always ends up diving in right after her anyway.

“I think you should go,” Bucky says instead, in his best dangerous tone.

“I don’t think so, boy,” the man says. “She followed me out here, told me what I could and couldn’t do to my own date, and then had the nerve to run off my girl.” His face distorts into a weird mix of a leer and a glare. “I think she owes me one for that. Only fair.”

Bucky feels something cold slip down his spine at those words. He looks at Stevie again, and this time he puts together little details that he ignored before. Her blouse is torn at the neck, sitting half-off one bony shoulder. She doesn’t wear lipstick, but her mouth is too red, and there’s a hint of blood at the corner of one lip. Her skirts are rumpled from being pressed into the wall, but they’re also loose and sitting crooked on her hips.

Stevie is still having trouble breathing evenly, but she’s quick to shake her head at him and say, “I—I’m fine.” She straightens her clothing, a little self-consciously. “He didn’t—You interrupted him. I’m fine.”

There’s a sick look on Stevie’s face, though, and Bucky tenses all over. “Stevie ...”

Her face goes about three kinds of stubborn, all at once. “He was hurting his date, Buck,” she says quietly. “I had to do something.”

“Interfering little bitch,” the man says. “You ought to make that up to me, don’t you think?” He has the nerve to smile at Bucky. “You help me keep her quiet and I’ll return the favor.”

Bucky sees red. He’s not aware that he’s tackled the piece of shit until he’s already got him pinned on the pavement, both hands around the guy’s throat.

It’s Stevie that stops him, with a hand on his shoulder. “No, Buck,” she says. “He isn’t worth it.”

Bucky doesn’t move at first, sitting on the guy’s hips and holding him down through his thrashing. “And the next girl he corners?” he demands. “You won’t be there to stop him next time, Stevie.”

Her hand tightens on his shoulder. “You’d go to jail, Buck.”

Bucky curses and lets go of the guy’s throat. The creep starts coughing, struggling to breathe normally.

“What the hell?” the man demands, hoarse. “You’re crazy! You could have killed me, and for what? One broad who ain’t even pretty enough to bother—”

Bucky punches him again, just to shut him up. (If Stevie wants to smack him for it, he doesn’t much care.)

Stevie watches from off to the side, looking thoughtful. “Can you knock him out?” she asks.

Bucky picks the guy off the pavement by the shoulders and then slams his head back down on the street, maybe a little harder than is strictly necessary. His eyes roll up and he goes limp.

Stevie pulls Bucky to his feet—or rather, holds onto him while he stands up, because she weighs about half what he does—and gives him a little push away from the creep on the ground. Once he’s clear, she steps between the man’s splayed legs. She pauses, considering, and then deliberately brings one foot down solidly on the man’s crotch.

Bucky grins.

“Let’s go,” Stevie says, brushing off her hands.

Bucky hesitates. “We should tell the cops,” he says. “Report him.”

“For what?” Stevie asks. It sounds so world-weary that it makes his chest hurt. “He’d probably have you arrested for assaulting him.”

The terrible thing is that Bucky can’t really argue with her. “But ...”

Stevie steps up to him and briefly touches her forehead to his. (She’s too short to reach, even on her tiptoes, but Bucky realizes what she’s doing and meets her halfway, like always.)

“Walk me home, Buck,” she says quietly. “Please.”

So he puts an arm over her shoulder, and does.

 

\--

 

It takes two days for Stark to finalize the new Captain America uniform, which works out because it takes that long for the newly christened Strategic Scientific Reserve Special Operations Division Advance Team One—already colloquially abbreviated to ‘the SSR Commandos,’ thank goodness—to recover from their celebratory night out and show up for training.

They’re waiting outside Stark’s ready room when Stevie comes out, and the team sees their C.O. in full costume for the first time. It’s as gaudy as the stage version, but it looks sturdier at least, made from leather and tough canvas instead of flimsy cloth. The color scheme is just barely muted, a token nod to camouflage in the field. They’ve added a utility belt and a hip holster, and there’s a magnetic latch between her shoulder blades for the shield.

Stevie walks up to them, smiling. “So?” she asks. She reaches over one shoulder and pulls the shield free, hefting it on one arm. “What do you think?”

Bucky realizes that he’s staring at the shield and makes himself blink. “You painted it like a target,” he says.

The shield isn’t plain silver anymore, but three concentric rings of red-white-red, with a white star on a blue circle in the middle.

Stevie seems a little sheepish. “Do you like it?”

She’s technically addressing the whole team, but she’s looking right at Bucky when she says it, so they let him answer.

Bucky is still staring. He can’t seem to stop. “You painted it like a goddamn target, Steve,” he says again.

Next to him, Morita stifles a laugh. “Well, at least it matches,” he says.

Stevie, meanwhile, is rolling her eyes. “It is a target, Buck,” she says, very patiently. “They’re supposed to shoot at the shield. That’s what it’s for.”

Dernier calls out a string of rapid, fluid French, which Jones helpfully translates as _Does it actually stop bullets?_

Stevie settles it on her arm and nods at Bucky.

Bucky sighs. He pulls out his sidearm, and in one smooth motion lifts it to aim at Stevie’s center of mass. He doesn’t give a warning or pause to see if she’s ready; he just fires.

The Commandos curse and leap backward.

Stevie angles the shield slightly to take the shot, catching it just right to make the bullet impact and drop harmlessly to the grass at her feet instead of ricocheting off.

“See?” she says, grinning.

Jones is the first to step forward. He crouches down and picks up the bullet, which is now just a misshapen lump of metal, and rolls it between his fingers. “Okay,” he admits. “That’s pretty impressive.”

Bucky just snaps his pistol back into its holster. (After two days at the base’s range, shooting at Stevie is old news.) “How’s the paint job hold up under fire?”

Stevie flips the shield around in her arms, rubbing one gloved hand lovingly over the curved surface. “A little scuffed, maybe,” she admits. “I’ll have to touch it up between missions.”

“Of course you will,” Bucky says, long-suffering, and the entire team laughs.

The next several days are spent running training exercises. Nothing particularly taxing, just designed to get the six of them—seven, counting Stevie—used to working as a team. Bucky watches most of it from a sniper’s perch, spotting for them, keeping an eye on how they move and work together.

Stevie is a natural.

She’s always had a good eye for people (except for when it comes to Bucky, maybe). She’s got a knack for figuring them out, knowing what to say and how to act to get them to cooperate. She’s an instinctual peacemaker, when she isn’t deliberately picking a fight, and the orders come easy for her. She sees how they fit together, and seems to understand everyone’s strengths and weaknesses.

Dugan, for instance, does subtle about as well as Stevie herself in her gaudy costume. He quickly becomes their second point-man, but he’s also good at handling heavy weapons and machinery. Dernier spent some time with the French Resistance, so he can improvise an explosive out of a typical farmhouse pantry, and is fantastic at pulling off to-the-minute diversions. Jones has quiet feet through rough terrain, and a sharp eye for details; he rapidly becomes their primary scout. Falsworth is calm and steady, dependable as they come, and can provide accurate covering fire under the most chaotic circumstances. Morita can keep the radio working when half the circuits are blown all to hell, or get a truck moving with a couple bullets in the engine block, and he’s also a sneaky bastard and a crack shot in close quarters.

It takes Stevie almost no time at all to figure each of them out, and to have them responding to her orders like they’ve done this for years. Bucky watches, silent, looking through a scope as a mix of Allied troops from all over—an English aristocrat, a Frenchman, a bloody-knuckled Boston brawler, a Japanese-American fresh out of the Stateside internment camps, and a Negro who legally isn’t supposed to be in a white unit at all—work together and follow an Irish punk from Brooklyn.

_Only Stevie_ , Bucky thinks. He has the crazy idea that they might not even care, if they find out she’s not really a man.

By the time the camera crews and newspaper reporters show up a week later, Captain America’s Commandos are a tight, functioning unit. If anybody came with questions about the fact that the team includes two foreign nationals in addition to two non-white Americans, they’re silenced. When it comes time to take some photographs and shoot a few film reels, nobody suggests hiding Jones or Morita in the back, or editing out Dernier’s French or Falsworth’s British accent.

“If they’re good enough for Captain America,” one reporter says, shaking Stevie’s hand enthusiastically, “they’re good enough for the American public.”

Bucky half-expects Stevie to argue with the man, to go off on a rant about how what a man looks like or where he’s born has nothing to do with his ability to be a hero—not to mention the little fact that people who look like Jones and people who look like Morita make up a large percentage of ‘the American public’—but he’s underestimated Stevie’s stage training. He sometimes forgets that she spent six months on a publicity circuit, learning how to curb her temper and play the game.

She shakes the man’s hand instead, face caught somewhere between a solemn look and a movie-star smile, and says, “They’re the best. I intend to prove that to Adolf Hitler myself.”

The reporter hastily writes that down, and they later find out that it was the headline back in New York the next day: _Captain America and His Commandos Take the Fight to Hitler!_ They laugh about it back in London, teasing Stevie about her over-the-top public persona.

Stevie shrugs, unselfconscious. “You should have seen the dialogue they had me doing on stage,” she says. “It’s what the press wants to hear. You guys should learn how to talk to them, actually. They’ll start coming after you, next.”

She’s right, of course. By the time Colonel Phillips clears them for field duty, half of America and a good portion of the Allied Armed Forces knows their names. They get recognized almost everywhere they go, especially if Stevie is with them in her iconic outfit. They’re heroes, and they haven’t even been on a mission yet.

Bucky watches it all, wondering if it’s enough to bring them home alive.

 

\--

 

Bucky is eighteen years old the winter that Stevie’s Ma dies.

It’s been a constant worry for Stevie, and therefore for Bucky, since they’ve been old enough to realize what her Ma’s job in the TB ward meant for her life expectancy. She probably contracted the disease years ago, but once it turns active it gets vicious. She goes from _it’s just a cold_ to coughing up blood in a handkerchief in under a week.

Bucky is terrified the entire time. Part of it is that Sarah Rogers has raised him as much as his own Ma, it seems like. (He can’t imagine how much worse it is for Stevie.) Most of it, though, is the prospect of Stevie catching it, too. With her weak immune system, and her Ma carrying it for who knows how long, what are her chances? Rheumatic fever after a bad sore throat almost killed her last year, and it left her with a heart murmur that could take her at any time. What chance does she have against something like tuberculosis?

The whole ordeal is like something out of a nightmare. Every second that Bucky doesn’t spend at his job, he spends at the Rogers apartment instead of his own. He fetches water, washes dishes, changes bedding, and does everything he can to keep Stevie away from her Ma when she’s coughing. (Sarah seems to catch on to what he’s doing, and helps him.) He runs their errands for them, and if he puts some of his own money into their groceries, well, Stevie is a little distracted and won’t ever notice.

When Stevie is frustrated and angry, it’s Bucky she yells at until she’s screamed herself out. When she’s exhausted, it’s Bucky who tucks a blanket around her on the couch. When she’s lost, it’s Bucky who holds her and lets her cry on his shoulder. It’s Bucky who greets the neighbors at the door when they come to offer their support. It’s Bucky who goes to the pharmacy to argue with the doctor, _again_. It’s Bucky who goes to fetch the local parish priest, when it can’t be put off any longer.

The last night, the longest night, Stevie refuses to leave her mother’s bedside. Bucky takes all the blankets from Stevie’s room and makes a pallet on the floor by the wall, instead. He lies down on his back and pulls Stevie into his arms, helpless to do anything to make it better, but trying anyway. He hugs her tight and rubs her back and ignores the way her elbows and knees are jabbing him or the way the arm she’s lying on starts to fall asleep. He’d stay right there forever, if that’s what she needed.

Sometime after midnight, Stevie rolls over and shifts until she can press her forehead to his, looking for the comfort to be found in a familiar gesture. At such close range, even in the dark, he can see the unshed tears in her eyes. For the first time in all the years he’s known her, she says, “I’m scared, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to do, so he just says, “Me, too.”

When dawn arrives, Sarah Rogers is gone.

Bucky doesn’t want to leave her, but Stevie asks for some time alone.

Bucky doesn’t go home; he heads straight for his parents’ apartment for the first time since he told them Stevie’s Ma was sick, which feels like forever ago. He catches them just before his Pa goes to work, and tells them the bad news.

His Ma pulls him into an embrace, and Bucky breaks down in a way he couldn’t, before. He was too focused on Stevie to feel much of anything himself.

“It’s not fair,” Bucky says, arms locked tight around his mother, standing adrift in the middle of the kitchen with breakfast going cold on the counter behind them, utterly forgotten. He appreciates her so much more today than ever before. “Stevie’s the best person I know; she doesn’t deserve this.”

“Nobody does, honey,” Bucky’s Ma tells him.

“What do I do?” Bucky whispers.

“What you’ve been doing,” Bucky’s Ma says. “Be there. She’s going to need you.”

For a while, though, Stevie keeps her distance. It’s almost like she doesn’t even want Bucky around. She’s extremely busy, but every time Bucky tries to help—to stand in line for the death certificate, to write thank-you notes for all the well-wishers, even just to bring her some groceries or do the laundry—Stevie tells him no. She’s determined to do it all by herself. She won’t even let him sleep on her couch, or come sleep on his, to keep from being alone.

Bucky doesn’t get a chance to give her a hug at the funeral, because she slips out to walk to the cemetery as soon as the service ends. At the grave-site, she’s all calm stoicism and straight back as she thanks each person for coming. When Bucky and his folks come through the line, she greets them with handshakes, like they’re acquaintances instead of practically family.

Bucky drops her hand and leans forward, determined to hug her this time. He’s shocked when she puts her palms flat on his chest and pushes him away. (She’s not really strong enough to budge him, but Bucky moves anyway.)

“Stevie?” he asks, frowning.

“Don’t.” Stevie says. Her voice comes out strangled. “Just—don’t, Buck. Please.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I’ll cry,” Stevie whispers.

“So?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. Not—” She swallows. “Let me get through this.”

Bucky hesitates, but his Ma takes his hand and squeezes it, pulling him toward their car.

When he finds Stevie later, on the landing outside her Ma’s apartment—her apartment, now—Bucky tries to convince her to at least stay a few days with his folks, if not with him. She’s the only one who thinks she should have to do this alone. She’s going to fall apart sooner or later, and Bucky wants to be there when it happens. Lord knows Stevie would do it for him, if it had been his Ma. Bucky and Stevie, always. (He says the words to her, even though he shouldn’t have to, but it’s like she’s forgotten somehow.)

She smiles. He pretends not to notice her tears. She doesn’t come home with him.

A week goes by, and they exchange only passing pleasantries. It’s like they’ve suddenly become casual friends, instead of spending most of their free time together. Bucky’s Ma tells him to be patient, that she’ll come around. She’s just adjusting, and he needs to give her some space.

A second week goes by. Then a third. Christmas comes and goes, and even though she spends the day with him and his folks (because where else could she go?), it isn’t the same. She’s distant, quiet. She goes _weeks_ without getting into a single fight, and even though Bucky’s been begging her to stop sticking her nose in things for almost as long as he’s known her, now it scares him. It’s like that fire that he loves about her is going out, and he doesn’t know how to bring it back.

It ends up being three months before Stevie shows up at his apartment one evening, shivering on the porch when he gets home from work. Bucky comes up the stairs and there she is, bundled up in her best coat—which is still too thin, too big, and patched within an inch of its life—and looking miserable in the February chill.

“You idiot,” Bucky says, hustling her through the door. “I gave you my spare key for a reason, Stevie. How long were you out there?”

Stevie ignores the question, moving stiffly over to his couch and sitting awkwardly in the center. She doesn’t take her coat off, although that might be because she’s shivering. She curls up into a small space, even for her, arms around her bony knees.

“Are you all right?” Bucky asks, kneeling in front of her. “Talk to me.”

Stevie won’t meet his eyes, but she does speak, if almost too quietly to hear. “I’m going to lose the apartment.”

Bucky rocks back on his heels. “Is Mr. Mallory—”

“No,” Stevie says quickly. “He’s been very understanding, actually. I just can’t earn enough to make the rent, and Ma’s savings are almost gone.” She’s trembling all over. “I’m already two weeks behind, and he says I can have another two weeks to figure something out, but I—I have to leave, after that.”

“Stevie, I’m sorry,” Bucky says. He sits down on the couch beside her and puts an arm over her shoulders, tugging her close to his side.

For a brief second, she tenses, and Bucky is afraid that she’s going to pull away and insist that she doesn’t need him mollycoddling her. Instead, she turns just slightly into his arms and buries her face in his chest. Her light trembling becomes full-body sobbing, quietened only because she’ll have an asthma attack if she cries too hard.

It’s not like Bucky didn’t see this coming, but it still hits him like a blow to the gut. Stevie’s doing the best she can, but she’s too frail to hold down a textile or laundry job for long. She can’t be a nurse like her Ma, because she’d end up catching everything and would be dead inside of a year. She doesn’t have the money to go to a women’s college and get qualified to be a clerk or a librarian or a teacher. She’s not suited to most domestic work—her stitching is actually worse than her cooking, and there’s a reason Bucky makes dinner if they eat together—and even if she was, where would she find a rich family to work for that didn’t already have a housekeeper or a nanny?

If the Depression was over, maybe she could have worked at the front counter of a local shop, but everybody is still struggling, and very few people are hiring at all. Sickly little Stephanie Rogers, with her asthma and propensity to pick fights and speak her mind (even to customers), isn’t at the top of anybody’s list. She can’t even rely on the relief programs, such as they are, because soup kitchens and bread lines aside, everything is designed for unemployed _men_. Bucky’s seen a woman looking for factory work get accused of stealing a job from a man who needs it to support his family, and never mind that maybe she was there in the first place because her husband got fired, or maybe she never had a man to support her in the first place.

“What are you going to do?” Bucky asks her, once she’s calm again.

Stevie wipes at her eyes and sits up straight, squaring her shoulders defiantly. “I want to work for the newspaper,” she says, like an announcement. “I can draw advertisements, or the funny pages. It’s the only thing I’m actually good at.”

“That would be perfect for you,” Bucky admits. It solves almost all the problems Stevie has with regular work: no physical labor or anything to set off her asthma, and she could even get some work done if she was stuck sick in bed, as long as she has some decent light. Bucky’s never heard of a woman drawing for the papers, though.

“I’ve done some research,” Stevie goes on. “It’d be barely enough to live on, _maybe_ , but I could do it. Especially if I had a roommate, to split rent.”

Bucky blinks. “You’re looking for a roommate?”

Stevie stares at him. Slowly, she raises her eyebrows.

Bucky sits bolt upright. “You mean me? You want us to live together?”

Stevie starts to get the faintest blush across her cheeks, but she crosses her arms and holds her ground. “You tried to get me to stay with you right after my Ma died.”

Bucky closes his mouth with a sharp click of his teeth. He’d only meant for a day or two, maybe a week, until she got through the worst of the grief. That’s all right, the sort of thing best friends do for each other. It’d be a little scandalous, but people would understand. The neighborhood has long since gotten used to their strange friendship, the one that didn’t end when everybody around them split friends along gender lines.

Living together, more or less permanently, is something _entirely_ different.

“We’re not getting married,” Bucky blurts out.

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t asking.”

“No, I mean—” Bucky feels like the world is spinning a little faster all of a sudden. “What would people think, you and me living together without being married?”

“Well,” Stevie says. “I had an idea about that.”

Bucky should have known it was trouble, just from the look on her face.

“Can I borrow some of your old clothes?” Stevie asks. “I’m pretty sure I can take them in to fit me. And I’m going to need some sharp scissors, for my hair.”

Two weeks later, Bucky packs up his current apartment and he and Stevie move into a new part of the neighborhood where nobody’s met them before. Together, they go around and introduce themselves: James Barnes, and his best friend (and roommate) Steven Rogers.

 

\--

 

Stevie shows up in the mess hall just as Bucky’s finishing up his dinner. (He’s not exactly sure what it is, but it’s hot and filling and he’s just over a month out of a prison camp, so he isn’t complaining.)

The hall isn’t crowded, because it’s later than the usual evening rush, but there are enough people present that it’s immediately noticeable when the conversations all start to peter out around him. He looks up to see what the interruption is, and finds Stevie at the doorway.

If she’s uncomfortable with the whole room staring at her, she doesn’t show it. At least she’s wearing a normal Army uniform, not her red-white-and-blue monstrosity, so the gawking is simply based on a captain entering the enlisted men’s mess. (Some of the men probably recognize her even without the costume, but they’re too tactful to make a fuss over it.)

“As you were,” Stevie says to the room at large, with a casual little wave.

Nobody says anything for a moment. Mess halls are sacred ground, and an officer appearing doesn’t require the room to snap to attention, but at least half of the conversations that Bucky can hear (and when did his hearing get good enough to eavesdrop from three tables away?) aren’t the sort to continue in the presence of an officer. Especially if said officer is Captain America.

“Sergeant Barnes?” Stevie asks, breaking the silence.

Bucky gets to his feet and falls into a casual parade-rest. “Captain?”

“I’d like a word,” Stevie tells him. “Report to my office when you’re finished here.”

Bucky’s pretty sure she doesn’t actually have an office, because they’ve been having their daily reviews of the team’s progress in her quarters instead. Maybe she just doesn’t want to order him to report to her room this late at night in front of a room full of listening ears.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says smartly. “Half an hour, sir?”

“That’ll be fine, Sergeant,” Stevie says. Her eyes flick around the room again, where most of the men are still staring at her. “Carry on,” she adds, a little dryly.

She turns around and walks out, and slowly the bustle of conversation picks up again.

It ends up being less than half an hour before Bucky reports, partially because he was basically finished already and doesn’t need to dawdle in the mess when he’s eating by himself, and partially because he’s curious about what Stevie wants to discuss. As her second-in-command, he was present at the briefing earlier when Colonel Phillips told them that they’d be getting their first assignment tomorrow morning; he wonders if she’s gotten some new information about their objectives that she wants to go over with him before telling the rest of the team.

They’re finally going on a mission. This time tomorrow, they’ll be out in the field.

Bucky slips into the officers’ barracks building unnoticed, biding his time outside with a cigarette until there’s a gap in people coming and going. He heads straight up to Stevie’s room and doesn’t bother knocking before opening the door and sliding in.

Whether it’s because of her rank or because Colonel Phillips knows she has a secret to protect, Stevie’s room is tiny but private. There’s just barely room for a bed, a trunk to store her possessions, and a miniscule desk for paperwork. With two fully-grown people inside, it’s a little cramped.

“Office?” Bucky asks as he shuts the door behind him, smirking. “Really?”

Stevie is sitting in the wooden chair, but she puts down the paper she was reading to look at him. “I have a desk,” she points out.

Bucky shakes his head and walks over to the bed. He flops down onto the mattress, face up, and laces his fingers behind his head. (The bed is nice, more comfortable than a standard-issue cot.)

“What did you need?” Bucky asks, staring at the ceiling.

When he doesn’t get an answer, he props his upper body on his elbows so that he can look at her. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, which is never a good sign.

“Stevie?” Bucky asks.

She takes a deep breath. “I want to tell them.”

Bucky waits for an explanation, but there doesn’t seem to be one coming. “What?” he prompts.

“The Commandos,” Stevie clarifies. “I don’t like lying to them. I couldn’t help it, here, but we’re going out into the field tomorrow.” She rubs at one elbow with her other hand, a little guiltily. “It doesn’t feel right, keeping secrets from them. We’re supposed to be a team.”

Bucky sits upright. “I thought you signed a bunch of papers saying you _couldn’t_ tell anyone,” he points out.

“I did.”

Bucky’s eyebrows go up. “You going to break your oath to the US Army, Captain Rogers?”

Stevie just looks at him, a little sheepish.

Bucky closes his eyes. “Christ,” he mutters. “You want me to tell them.”

“You never signed anything,” Stevie reminds him. “Sooner or later somebody’s going to rectify that, but in the meantime you could theoretically tell anybody you pleased.”

“That’s kind of a fine line, isn’t it?”

Stevie gets up just long enough to spin the chair around and straddle it, resting her hands on the back. “Those papers didn’t say anything about me talking to people who already know,” she insists. “If my team just happened to find out somehow, well. I certainly couldn’t be blamed for explaining in an attempt to preserve team solidarity.”

Bucky snorts. “Didn’t take you long to pick up the brass jargon, huh?”

Stevie gives him an exasperated look.

Bucky sighs. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says.

Her face falls. “You don’t think they’d follow me, if they knew.”

“After you rescued them? They’d follow Captain America no matter who he was,” Bucky says flatly.

“So why _not_ tell them?” Stevie asks.

“I’m used to thinking of you as a fella in front of other people,” Bucky says patiently. “Can you be sure the others will be able to pull that off? That they’ll tell bawdy jokes in front of you, or curse, or be comfortable stripped to bare chests and skivvies in the summer?”

Stevie thinks for a minute, not speaking.

Bucky nods. “What happens then, when somebody gets curious about why Captain America’s Commandos are treating him like he has delicate, ladylike sensibilities?”

“Maybe Captain America is just a stickler for discipline,” Stevie offers.

Bucky doesn’t mention that it bothers him, sometimes, how she’s started to refer to herself in third person. Between separating ‘Steve’ and ‘Stephanie,’ and now adding a stage persona, Stevie’s head must be getting crowded.

“This is really important to you, isn’t it?” he asks her quietly.

“Yeah,” she says. “It is.”

Bucky kicks his knees absently open and shut where they hang off the mattress. “Can I ask why?”

“You mean, other than I don’t want to lie to my men?” she asks. (Isn’t that something, how easy the words _my men_ fall off Stevie’s lips, like she was always meant to do this.) “If I tell them voluntarily—”

Bucky manages to interrupt her with nothing more than a sideways look.

“If _you_ tell them, because I asked you to,” Stevie corrects, “then it’s a sign of trust. Something to bring us closer together, as a team.”

“You think it might make them feel special, privileged,” Bucky muses. (He always could tell what she was thinking, most of the time.) “Give them something to protect.”

Stevie nods. “But if they find out on their own? Maybe I slip up. Maybe something we can’t control happens.” She’s shaking her head. “Then it’s a betrayal. They’ll never trust me again. The whole team would fall apart, and I’ll be back doing my dancing monkey routine so fast it’ll make me dizzy.”

Bucky doesn’t like it, but he can’t really argue the logic. He’s already spent a considerable amount of time worrying about the logistics of keeping her secret on an extended mission with such a small team. It’s entirely possible that they’ll find out, sooner rather than later. It’s a risk either way, but she’s right about the consequences being worse if they get caught instead of coming clean from the start.

“Damn,” Bucky says. He puts his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. “How do I even start that conversation?”

They discuss it for hours, going through likely scenarios and possible reactions. (At one point, Stevie throws her hands up and says _I don’t know, Buck; maybe you should just call me Stephanie in front of them and pretend like you didn’t know it was a secret_.) They go around and around in circles, because there just isn’t a clean way to deliver a shock like that.

By the time they finally call it quits _—Jesus Christ, I’ll make it up as I go, Stevie; that always works out better for me anyhow_ —it’s well after midnight, and they have an 0700 briefing to attend in the morning.

Bucky gets to his feet and walks to the door, but he hesitates before reaching for the knob. It’s late, too late for him to be here. If somebody saw him leaving, it would look strange, even for a normal captain and his sergeant. If somebody like Colonel Phillips, who knows the truth, sees him? Bucky can already imagine the lecture, about _keeping up appearances_ if nothing else.

Stevie must figure out what’s got him stuck, because she sighs behind him and says, “Just sleep here. You’re not going to get yelled at less now than you will in the morning, and this way you’ll at least get some sleep first.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, still hesitating. “I think the lecture might be worse if I stay the night.”

Stevie shrugs. “The door locks, you know,” she tells him quietly. “Colonel Phillips insisted on it, as a precaution.”

Bucky’s too tired to argue about it. He turns away from the door and shrugs out of his uniform jacket. “I’m blaming you, if I get caught,” he says, as he throws the jacket on the back of Stevie’s desk chair and kicks his way out of his boots. “A whole mess hall full of people heard you ordering me to report.”

Stevie rolls her eyes as she leans against the wall to untie her laces. “I said ‘office’ for a reason.”

Bucky slips off his tie and yanks off his socks; they join his jacket on the chair. “Anybody in a position to yell at me is going to know you don’t have an office.”

“I should have an office, though, right?” Stevie asks. She sets her boots by the end of the bed, places her socks carefully on top, and begins unbuttoning her jacket. “Captain America should get an office.”

“It’s a national tragedy,” Bucky agrees. Without thinking, he pulls off his shirt and throws it back to the chair with the rest of his things. “I mean, how else—”

“ _Bucky!_ ”

Bucky turns around, cursing himself for an idiot. He hastily crosses his arms over his bare chest, as if that’s going to hide more than a small fraction of the scars. Somehow, he’d forgotten that Stevie hasn’t seen him without a shirt since she rescued him.

Stevie has crossed the small room and is now right in front of him, something horrified in her blue eyes. “Jesus, Buck,” she whispers.

Bucky steps back, almost hitting the wall. “It’s nothing,” he says quickly.

“It is not nothing,” Stevie insists. “Bucky, these are—these are _burns._ ”

“Some of them, yeah,” Bucky says. His tone is aiming for flippant, but it doesn’t quite make it. “Some are cuts; they took tissue samples with a scalpel. Needle marks have all faded, I think.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. “The others are ... well, I don’t really remember everything they did, to be honest.”

“Bucky,” Stevie says again, mournfully. He can see tears hovering at the corners of her eyes, unshed. She reaches out a hand, like she’s going to touch him.

“Don’t—it’s fine,” Bucky says. “I’m fine. I am.” He pushes her hand away; she shouldn’t have to touch something so ugly. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I knew you weren’t sleeping well,” Stevie admits. “I had no idea it was this bad, though. This isn’t—Buck, this isn’t just a few experiments.” Her bottom lip is trembling. “This is torture.”

Bucky flinches. He _hates_ that word. It carries so many connotations, and he can’t deal with anyone’s pity (especially not Stevie’s). What right does he have to be upset, when so many guys didn’t make it out? Everybody else on Zola’s table died in a day or two, but Bucky held on. Stevie came for him and got him out alive. He survived. He _won_.

“I’m _fine_ , Stevie,” Bucky tries again. He ignores the way his voice is trembling. “Here, just give me my shirt back—”

He tries to get past her, but Stevie stops him. Her arms might as well be steel for all Bucky can move them.

“Don’t you dare,” Stevie says, quiet and intense. Her hands reach out slowly and begin to roam across his skin, moving from mark to mark across his chest, his ribcage, his sides, his back. “Don’t hide from me, Buck.”

Bucky’s mouth twists into a nightmarish mockery of his trademark smirk. “You don’t want to see me like this,” he tells her.

“I need to,” Stevie whispers. “Please.”

Bucky swallows one time, gathering his courage. Then he steps back, just to arm’s reach, and spreads his hands out. He has to close his eyes—he can’t watch her face, can’t see that moment when pity turns to disgust—but he stands there, exposed, more vulnerable than he’s been in a long, long time. He lets her look, lets her see him.

With his eyes closed, it’s a shock when he feels her lips press gently into a mark on his shoulder, brushing a feather-light kiss over the damaged skin. He gasps and jerks backwards.

“Oh, God, does it hurt?” Stevie asks, sounding alarmed. “I’m sorry!”

“No,” Bucky says. Now more than his voice is trembling. “I just—You startled me.”

Her hands slip around him, arms underneath his outstretched ones. Broad palms, so much bigger than he remembers, settle on the backs of his shoulder blades, supporting him. “Is this okay?” she asks.

Bucky leans back a little, but her hands don’t budge. She’s strong enough to hold him up, to hold him still. He nods once, a quick jerk of his head, eyes still tightly shut.

This time, when he feels the light touch of her kiss against a different scar near the top of his chest, he can’t pull away. He’s caught between her strong hands and the gentle press of her lips. Maybe it ought to make him feel trapped, but it doesn’t. She’s got him; she can hold him together. He’s safe.

He starts to shiver.

Stevie stops immediately, but she doesn’t take her hands away. “Bucky?” she asks.

“You shouldn’t have to see me like this,” Bucky tells her. He has to clench his hands into fists, to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her closer. “I’m damaged goods, Stevie.”

There’s silence between them for a moment, until she kisses yet another scar. This one is closer to his side, at his ribcage. When her lips pull back, she says, “I hate these, because they caused you pain. If I could have stopped it from happening to you, I would have done anything. _Anything_ , Bucky.”

He squeezes his eyes more tightly shut. He is _not_ going to start crying. He’s not a child.

“It’s not your fault, Stevie,” he says. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

She ignores him, like he hadn’t spoken at all. “But when I see them like this, all these marks that you carry with you ...”

She slides her hands down from his shoulders to the small of his back, never letting up the pressure that’s holding him upright. She must crouch, because her next kiss is pressed to the jagged scar over his kidney.

“They’re beautiful, Buck,” she breathes, letting the words cascade across his skin. “They’re proof that you fought, that you stayed alive when so many others didn’t. They show the world just how strong you really are.”

Bucky opens his eyes, then.

Stevie is on her knees at his feet, arms around his waist, tears on her cheeks and something fierce and achingly beautiful shining out of her eyes. She looks like she’s praying, face uplifted, only it’s Bucky that she’s worshiping, as broken as he is. It shakes him right down to his core.

“I’m so sorry,” Stevie adds. “I came for you as soon as I could.”

“I know,” Bucky says. He reaches down and cups her face in his hands, thumbs passing through the tear tracks on her cheeks. “You saved me, Stevie.”

He pulls gently upward. She stands up immediately, in one fluid motion. His hands never leave her face, and her hands stay pressed tightly to his back, holding them together.

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky repeats, and brings her head down just enough to press his forehead to hers, the way they’ve always done when things are bad. Shutting out the world, focusing on each other, because that’s all they need. “You saved me.”

“I’ll always save you,” Stevie promises him, arms tightening around him, like she might never let him go.

“I know,” Bucky says again. “Because I’ll always save you, too.”

“Bucky and Stevie,” she says, smiling even though there are still tears in her eyes.

“Bucky and Stevie,” Bucky repeats, smiling back. “Always.”

They eventually let go of each other in order to finish the routines of getting ready for bed, but as soon as the lights are off and they’re under the covers, they reach for each other again. In the darkness, Bucky’s hands slowly learn her new body, the way she’d mapped out each of his scars. Without the uniform—and he was right; there’s a compression shirt flattening out her chest, with padding to disguise some of her curves, apparently courtesy of Howard Stark—she’s markedly feminine, soft and strong all at once. She’s self-conscious about how much she’s changed, though, in much the same way Bucky had been. She admits to being worried that he sees her differently, now that she’s taller and so much stronger than him.

It doesn’t matter, of course. They’re both different from the way they were back in Brooklyn, but somehow they fit together just the same. (Even if Stevie got perfected while Bucky just got broken.)

“I’ll always love you, Buck,” Stevie whispers once, a reassurance in the darkness. “No matter what happens.”

“You’ll always be my girl, Stevie,” Bucky whispers back. “Don’t care what body you have.”

They fall asleep that way, arms and legs tangled together, foreheads just barely touching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for rape / non-con elements: In this chapter, Bucky interrupts an attempted (ultimately unsuccessful) sexual assault. The attempt occurs primarily off-screen, is implied rather than stated outright, and is non-graphic in nature.
> 
> Trigger warning for racial issues: A passing mention is made in this chapter of the internment camps in the United States for people, American citizens or not, of Japanese descent. Specifically, the idea that Jim Morita, who is canonically Japanese-American, may have been incarcerated prior to his enlistment. Since he mentions in the film that he is from Fresno, it is almost certain that his family, at least, is currently being detained back home. (Fresno, CA was inside the West Coast Exclusion Zone.) In addition, the word “Negro” is once again used in its historic context to refer to Gabe Jones.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a character making possibly homophobic comments. See end notes for specifics.

The 0700 briefing is like every other briefing Bucky’s been to, during his year-and-change as a soldier: longer than it needs to be, with too little actual information released, and full of aides and analysts with theoretically perfect plans who don’t know shit about actual combat, and how that tends to require improvising. Luckily Stevie has already seen this phenomenon firsthand, since her only experience in the field was improvised from the get go. Somehow that fills him with more confidence that any scribbled-on map could ever manage.

Fourteen hours later, they’re across the channel and parachuting into occupied France. This first mission is something of a soft lob to break them in, supposedly; while the target they’re after _is_ HYDRA, it isn’t a full base like the one Stevie hit to rescue them. It’s just a couple of buildings on the outskirts of a small town, probably a farm before the war. No prisoners to rescue, no intel to gather, no high-priority targets that will be well protected. Just a safe-house for extraneous equipment.

Dernier has enough explosives in his pack to blow the whole place sky-high, and that is pretty much the extent of the plan. Sneak through enemy territory, locate the target, plant the bombs, and get the hell back to the retrieval point before anybody has time to figure out they were there. They’ve got a three-day window before they’re expected back, so their pace is almost leisurely. If it weren’t for the fact that they have to keep an eye out for German patrols, it would almost be like a camping trip with new friends.

Not that Bucky’s ever been camping. Before the war, he’d never been out of New York City (except for one trip to Indiana as a kid), and he has a feeling that picnics in the park here and there with Stevie don’t actually count. It was part of the reason he was so startled when they put a sniper rifle in his hands during basic and he found out he had a knack for it. Most of the other guys who’d shown a proficiency had been country boys, used to hunting. Bucky had never touched a gun before.

_Just a natural, I guess_ , the training officer had said. _Lucky us._

They make camp in a patch of God-forsaken forest too far out (hopefully) to be worth patrolling. They’ll cover the rest of the distance to their target tomorrow, destroy it overnight, and get back to friendly territory sometime on the third day. If everything goes according to plan, of course.

When Jones comes back from his second wide circle around their campsite, and proclaims the area completely free of Germans to cause them trouble, everybody relaxes a little. They’re far enough off the main road not to be caught by anybody who isn’t specifically looking, and they’ll hear any trucks or tanks that get curious long before they’ll be in danger. The odds of a foot patrol stumbling across them are pretty low. They’re about as safe as it’s possible to be in enemy-occupied lands.

Bucky sets out his bedroll and has just fished out one of his K-rations for supper when Stevie crouches down next to him (pretending to fiddle with something in her own pack) and whispers, “You ready?”

Bucky nods.

Stevie stands back up, leaving her pack on the ground by Bucky’s bedroll, and announces, “I think I’ll take first watch. Maybe scout around a little.”

Jones gives her an odd look, because he just did that and he’s a better field scout than Stevie could ever hope to be, in her patriotic outfit. “Looks clear, Cap,” he says.

“I’m sure it is,” Stevie says immediately. “Just need to stretch my legs a little.”

She’s out of sight into the trees before anybody has a chance to comment.

Bucky shakes his head and continues unpacking his meal. They shouldn’t risk a fire, so it’s cold biscuits and meat hash, or whatever the insides of a K-ration are supposed to be. If he’s lucky, it’ll have a chocolate bar; he’s heard that’s the most redeeming feature about K’s as opposed to the more standard C’s he got on the front before. Now that he’s officially a Commando, he gets the short-term, lightweight, box-packaged meals instead of the heavier (but more filling) cans. He’s not sure it’s a good trade, but the presence of real chocolate might tip it over.

“The Captain seem a little anxious to anybody else?” Jones asks, still staring at the spot where Stevie slipped into the trees.

“First mission jitters?” Falsworth offers.

Morita makes a little huffing noise. “Did he seem nervous to you when he was busting us out of prison cells?”

Dernier says something in a stream of French.

“Yeah,” Jones says. “Jacques says you’ve been a little more surly than usual, too, Sarge. What’s going on?”

Bucky sighs and drops the half-opened K-ration in front of him. “Okay. Everybody sit down and listen up. We need to talk.”

“Shit,” Dugan says instantly. “What didn’t they tell us about this mission? How bad is it?”

Bucky waves his hands in a pacifying gesture. “No, no. Nothing like that. Mission’s fine.”

He should have guessed that would be their immediate reaction. As men who had been abandoned for dead by their own officers, rescued only by the unauthorized actions of someone who was more a publicity stunt than a real soldier—and even then only by the happenstance of said publicity stunt’s best friend being captured with them—they weren’t entirely trusting of the military upper echelon. It _would_ be just like the brass to throw their new signature team a curve ball first pitch, instead of the soft lob they’d promised.

Bucky gives everybody a chance to sit down in a loose, lopsided circle on their various bedrolls before he leans back a little and says, calmly, “I’m about to disclose some classified information. Just so we’re clear, I haven’t been ordered to, but the Captain and I would feel better if we didn’t have to lie to the team.”

He pauses a moment, gauging their reactions. Falsworth looks slightly interested, like this might be an entertaining diversion. Dernier looks eager. Jones looks skeptical. Morita looks bored, like he doesn’t care. Dugan is stroking his ridiculous mustache, looking thoughtful.

“If anybody has a strong objection to hearing something you’re not supposed to know, I suggest you join the Captain elsewhere,” Bucky continues. “Staying here and listening means you agree to keep it a secret. Understood?”

“Speaking of,” Morita says. “If the Captain agrees we should be told, why’d he leave in the first place?”

Bucky smirks. “The Captain signed a bunch of paperwork saying it was a crime to discuss it with anyone who didn’t already know.” He shrugs, a little self-deprecatingly. “Apparently the brass forgot that we grew up together. They didn’t make me sign anything.”

Jones raises his eyebrows slightly. “That’s following the letter and ignoring the intent,” he says.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “If there’s one thing Stevie’s good at, it’s finding loopholes. Or don’t you remember that our rescue wasn’t authorized until after we got back?”

“It’s about how strong he is,” Morita says flatly. “Isn’t it?”

“What?” Bucky asks, genuinely thrown.

“The way he tosses around that shield, like it weighs nothing at all,” Morita continues. “If he was built like a circus strongman, maybe I’d buy it. But he isn’t. He’s a lot stronger than he should be.”

Bucky blinks. “Wait. You guys haven’t got the full story about that?”

Dugan shrugs. “I heard rumors, but nothing definitive. You saying it’s true? They did something to him?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “That’s not even supposed to be a secret, I don’t think. The papers back home have been running stories on it since it happened.”

Jones kicks good-naturedly at his knee. “So you going to tell us, or not?”

“It was called the super-soldier serum,” Bucky says, “and before you ask, that’s basically all I know.”

“ _Super_ soldier?” Falsworth repeats, with a wry twist to the word. (It has a distinct flavor of ‘the superior man,’ which even Bucky hasn’t failed to notice is the primary Nazi propaganda piece.)

Bucky nods. “It was created by some doctor, and funded by the SSR. Stevie got picked to be the first trial, but the doctor got shot by HYDRA right after the procedure, and nobody can recreate his work.”

“It’s just the Captain, then?” Morita asks. “He’s the only one?”

Bucky nods again.

“That’s a shame,” Jones says, frowning slightly. “A company of men like the Captain could launch an invasion all by themselves. Retake France.”

Dernier mutters something to his own boots.

“What did it do to him, exactly?” Morita asks. “What did it affect?”

“I don’t know specifically,” Bucky admits. “You’ve all seen the same things I have: strength, speed, endurance. If you want scientific data, you’ll have to talk to Stark; I’m told he did the post-procedure tests. But it was definitely a dramatic change.”

“Yeah?” Dugan asks. “How dramatic?”

“Before?” Bucky says. “Stevie barely came up to my shoulder, and weighed about ninety pounds soaking wet. Couldn’t throw a punch hard enough to leave a bruise if somebody’s life depended on it. Got winded going up a couple flights of stairs. Had asthma, heart problems, and caught every single sickness that came around.” His lips press into a thin, white line just remembering. “Nearly died from pneumonia or rheumatic fever or whatever else every goddamn winter.”

They’re all staring at him.

Bucky crosses his heart once, smiling fondly. “God’s honest truth,” he says. “Ask the Captain if you don’t believe me. You’ll get the same answer.”

The makeshift camp is silent for a long moment. It occurs to Bucky that it must be just as hard for them to reconcile a small, sickly young man with the Captain Rogers they know as it was for Bucky to reconcile Captain America with the Stevie he remembered.

“Wait,” Falsworth says, suddenly frowning. “If that isn’t the classified secret, what _else_ haven’t we been told?”

The curiosity is so strong that it’s almost a physical presence.

“First,” Bucky says, “are we all agreed? This stays among us? You’ll go on acting like you don’t know, in front of everybody else?”

He gets a round of nodding heads.

“Okay.” Bucky takes a deep breath and speaks quickly, getting the words out all at once. “The most important thing is this: everything you know about the Captain hasn’t changed. She’s still the person who came for us when nobody else would, braver and more stubborn than anybody on the planet, and determined to take down HYDRA. Everything you’ve learned about her over the last month is still true, save for the one lie the Army made her tell.”

There’s complete silence for a moment.

“You said ‘she,’” Jones says. He glances at Dernier. “He said ‘she,’ right?”

“Yes,” Bucky says firmly. He braces himself for their reactions. “I did.”

“What the hell?” Dugan grumbles immediately. “Steve Rogers, Captain America, is a girl?”

“Stephanie Rogers, Captain America, is a woman,” Bucky corrects. “Except for the doctor who cleared her to enlist, nobody in the Army found out until after she’d gotten the super-soldier serum. She earned that, on merit alone.”

There’s another moment of shocked silence.

“Wait,” Morita says. “Is this some kind of prank you worked out between you?”

“No,” Bucky says. “Why would we lie about something like this?”

“The Captain is a woman,” Falsworth says, as if trying it out to see how it sounds. “Are you sure?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You asking me if I’ve seen her naked?”

“Oh, God,” Jones says, eyes widening. “You’re not best friends. You’re _together_.”

“What?” Bucky says.

“You do sort of stare at him—her,” Morita points out. “A lot.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dugan says, like he’s just figured out something important. “I thought you were just wired wrong, Barnes. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that the man you’re in love with is actually just a girl _pretending_ to be a man.”

“Hey,” Bucky snaps. “First off, none of your business. Secondly, the way I feel—”

“Buck?”

Everybody turns. Stevie is standing at the edge of their little camp, helmet in one hand and shield in the other, rifle strapped across one shoulder.

“Stevie,” Bucky says, a warning in his tone. “You came back about five minutes too early. I have some misconceptions to straighten out.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I think I should take it from here.”

Stevie walks over and takes a seat almost directly across from Bucky, splitting the team between them. (It’s a good move, because if they sat on the same side, the team could avoid looking either of them in the eye. This way, unless they stare at their own feet, one of them is going to be in view.)

“No,” Stevie says firmly. “My love life, or lack thereof, or the Sergeant’s involvement in same, isn’t any of your business.” Immediately, in the same calm but serious tone, she adds, “For the record, no, we’re not together. Yes, it’s complicated. We care about each other too much for it not to be. No, I’m not going to explain further than that.”

There’s a moment of awkward, embarrassed shuffling from the five Commandos.

Stevie nods, satisfied. “Yes,” she says, as if answering unspoken but clearly heard questions. “I lied on my enlistment form. Yes, the doctor who accepted me knew I was female. Yes, I’d already had practice at passing for a man, and no, I will not tell you my reasons or circumstances. That’s not relevant.”

“But, Captain—” Falsworth begins.

Bucky and Stevie both level glares at him, and he snaps his mouth shut mid-sentence.

“No,” Stevie says flatly, “you are not to treat me any differently than any other officer you might serve with. You volunteered to follow Captain America, and that’s me. Colonel Phillips knew when he approved me for command of this team, and so did the officers _he_ reports to. SSR Command decided I was Captain America, not me. So clearly, I’m qualified. Breasts and all.”

Dugan makes a choking noise. Jones starts coughing, as if he’s trying to disguise the same. Morita looks shell-shocked. Falsworth is still wary from being glared at. Dernier looks mildly confused, like maybe he thinks he’s following the English wrong.

“If this is going to be a problem for any of you,” Stevie goes on, completely ignoring their reactions, “you may say so now, or at the end of this mission. When we return to base, I will request a transfer for anyone who wants one, in good faith. I won’t have men serving with me who can’t accept me, or who don’t trust me in the field, for whatever reason.”

Nobody says a word.

“Regardless of your intention to stay or transfer,” Stevie says, “I expect you to keep my gender a secret. Not because I’m trying to hide, but because SSR Command has decided that it should be classified. I will not tolerate gossip, tale-telling, or rumors, and if I don’t scare you, let me assure you that Colonel Phillips won’t be amused, either.”

Stevie waits for a moment, drawing out a good, long dramatic pause.

“Am I clear?” she asks, using that tone of voice that makes trained soldiers snap to attention.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says automatically.

He’s only half surprised when each of the other men echo him, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“Good,” Stevie says. Some of the harshness leaks out of her voice, and her shoulders soften from their rigid posture. “Having said that,” she continues, “I don’t want this to be awkward, or create friction. If you have questions or things that are bothering you, I’m willing to discuss them, so long as it’s done respectfully. Does that seem fair?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorus again. This time it seems less knee-jerk and more genuine.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Stevie says as she gets to her feet. “I think we should give the men some time to digest this. You up for a perimeter check?”

“Sure, Cap,” Bucky says. He snatches his rifle with one hand and the half-opened K-ration with the other. “After you.”

They’re not even ten yards into the trees when they hear the Commandos start to yell at each other. The voices are distinct—no surprise, Dugan is the loudest—but the words are just muffled enough by the distance and the ambient nighttime forest sounds that they can’t be understood.

Stevie slumps against a tree. “That could have gone better,” she says quietly.

“Could have gone worse,” Bucky says. “Nobody up and left right away, or called you any names, or tried to throw a punch.”

“I might have preferred it if they had,” Stevie admits. She clenches and unclenches her fists. “If it was just a matter of beating some sense into them, earning their respect—”

“Hey,” Bucky says quickly. “Don’t forget. You did that part already, when you saved their lives.”

“Steve Rogers did that bit,” she reminds him. “I’m going to have to prove myself all over again as Stephanie. And I’ll have to be twice as good to get the same credit.”

Bucky sighs and leans into her just a bit from the side, forehead at her temple. “Not from me,” he whispers.

They stand that way for a minute or two, listening to the dulled sounds of the men shouting in the distance.

After a while, Bucky turns his head slightly toward her ear and says, very quietly, “It’s _complicated_?”

Stevie laughs softly. “Well, what was I supposed to say?” she asks him. “Sooner or later, one of them is going to remember Peggy. I haven’t figured out how to explain that, yet.”

“That will be interesting,” Bucky agrees. He stands upright out of his lean and takes a bite of one of his K-ration crackers. It’s dry, but no more so than usual military fare. He chases it with some water from his canteen. “How long do you think they’ll be at it?”

Stevie stares back the direction they came. “Maybe an hour?”

Bucky promptly sits down to finish his meal. He slaps Stevie’s hand away when she makes a grab for one of the crackers. Everybody heard Stark arguing with the quartermaster about Captain America’s increased metabolism, so it’s not like she doesn’t have enough of her own.

He pretends not to notice when she sneaks half his chocolate bar, anyway.

 

\--

 

In August of 1936, Bucky gets his first-ever promotion at work. He’s nineteen years old.

It comes with a nice little boost in pay, slightly better hours, and training for some of the more skilled positions on the factory floor. That in and of itself would have been a reason to celebrate, because even though the papers are saying that the Depression is finally loosening its hold, it’s still easy to get fired. Being trained, even a little, makes him harder to replace. It’s a layer of security he didn’t have, before.

Naturally, the bosses tell him on a Monday morning, so he has to sit on his good news all week until Friday rolls around. When he finally gets home that night after his shift, he’s literally bouncing as he comes through the door, never mind the oppressive summer heat.

“Stevie?” Bucky calls out as he spins across the threshold. “Guess who’s got good news?”

“Judging from the fact that you’re dancing in our living room,” Stevie says dryly, “I’m going to guess you.”

“Gee,” Bucky says, emphasizing his natural drawl. “You ought to be a detective, with that brain.”

“Shut it, you,” Stevie says, but she’s smiling at him. “You going to tell me, or not?”

She gets up from the couch, slowly. Even with every window in their apartment open (and the sun approaching the horizon line), the heat is too thick for her to be energetic, or else she’ll risk an asthma attack. This summer in particular has been brutal, with record-setting temperatures going all the way back to June; Stevie’s been pale, sweaty, and tired for weeks. At least her newspaper job—which she got through sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness, applying once a day every day for over a month until they gave in—lets her work inside out of the sun, and sit still while she does it. She’d have been in serious trouble, otherwise.

“I,” Bucky says, very seriously, with one hand dramatically placed on his chest, “got a promotion.”

Stevie’s eyes light up, and she walks forward to give him a hug. “Bucky, that’s fantastic! Congratulations.”

Bucky picks her up and swings her around in a little circle, ignoring her sudden yelp. “How do you feel about going out tonight to celebrate?”

“Of course,” Stevie says. She only wobbles slightly when Bucky puts her down. “Let me just get cleaned up, first.”

It doesn’t take long for Stevie to wash the ink off her hands and change into a clean shirt. Bucky takes longer, going through the trouble of slicking his hair and putting on his best outfit. He’s not sure why he bothers, except that he always likes to look nice when they go out. Now he’ll just get his good things sweat-drenched, because there aren’t any cool spots to be found in New York this summer.

As a treat, they head out for supper instead of cooking. It’s the first time they’ve been to a diner in a couple months, and the fresh coffee is almost as good as the fried foods. On the way back to the apartment, they catch the Dunleavy brothers—Frank and Herbert—and Chester Miller, who live across the hall and one floor up, respectively. They invite the three of them along on their night out.

All five of them end up at a local bar, tossing back one round of good whiskey courtesy of Bucky’s higher paycheck, and then nursing theoretically-cold beers at a table in the corner. The story of Bucky’s promotion leads naturally into a discussion of the supposedly-recovering economy, and the fruits of Roosevelt’s New Deal. That segues into election talk, although nobody really expects FDR to have any trouble at the voting halls in November. Politics leads to the rumblings coming out of Europe, and whether or not the Olympics going on in Berlin this month will calm things down.

As evening turns to night, the crowd picks up. The dance floor is cleared and a band shows up to play. Bucky is (naturally) the first one to leave their table and ask a dame for the privilege, but Frank isn’t far behind him. Chester gets up to chat with a pretty gal at the bar, leaving Herbert to keep Stevie company at their table.

Bucky doesn’t think anything of it; he’d long since gotten used to Stevie’s tendency to sit quietly in the corner while he danced his way through the willing dames. This is the first time that he and ‘Steve’ have been out with other people they know, however, and it’s not as simple as it used to be.

When Bucky comes back to the table for a breather, dripping sweat from just two quick dances in a row—every door and window in the place is propped open, but the night remains stubbornly hot—he finds Stevie in the middle of a discussion with both Dunleavy brothers.

“Really, it’s fine,” Stevie is saying as Bucky walks up and flops into an available chair. “I don’t even know how to dance.”

Herbert chuckles a little bit into his beer. “How the hell are you friends with fancy-feet here,” he asks, flicking a thumb at Bucky, “and yet you don’t know how to dance?”

Bucky smiles as he reaches for his drink, which is no longer even pretending to be cold. “Don’t look at me; I’ve tried to teach him.”

(It took a few months, but now it hardly registers as strange to talk about Stevie using male pronouns in public.)

“You don’t even have to dance,” Frank says. “Look at Chester over there.” He points to the bar, where Chester is leaning next to a laughing dame with long black hair. “All you got to do is buy one drink and talk to her real nice.”

Stevie turns an interesting shade of pink. “I, um. Don’t do well. Talking, I mean. To girls.”

Herbert is outright laughing now, while Frank rolls his eyes.

“James, help me out here,” Frank says. “This is sad. He’s your best friend, and you let him get to a state like this?”

“Hell,” Bucky says. “I’ve known him for a decade, and I’ve never seen him go on a date.”

“That’s it,” Frank says. “We are not leaving this bar tonight until we get Steve here a gal. Agreed?”

Herbert lifts his beer in a toast. Stevie turns brighter pink, almost red, and stares at her hands on the table top.

Bucky shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. Pretending to be a fella in order to get a job and live in an apartment without people asking questions is one thing, but _this_ is a little too much. How is Stevie supposed to flirt with a gal when she secretly is one herself? What if she finds somebody who thinks she’s really interested? How much is she willing to lie?

Not to mention, a roll of cloth wrapped around her chest hides her small breasts well enough, but if wandering hands end up in the wrong place, it’s going to be obvious in a hurry that she’s missing some vital equipment. It seems like a lot of trouble, not to mention awkward for Stevie, just to humor some friends and keep up appearances.

“Hey, come on, Frank,” Bucky says, still smiling good-naturedly. “Don’t bother him. If Steve wants to just sit here and relax, we ought to leave him alone.”

Frank puts a finger in Bucky’s face. “You’re hopeless, James. Worst best friend ever.” He turns to Stevie. “Don’t worry, buddy. Me and Herb will get you set up.”

“Um,” Stevie says. She’s definitely red now, and for some reason won’t look Bucky in the eye. “Okay. Do you have somebody in mind?”

“Well,” Frank says, sitting back in his chair. “Anybody catch your eye? What do you like in a dame?”

Stevie bites her lip. “Looks aren’t so important, really,” she says quietly. “But somebody my size? I’d feel a little ridiculous with a gal who’s a foot taller than me.”

Herbert makes a face. “That’s half the dames in here disqualified already.”

Frank smacks his brother on the arm. “No, it’s fine. It’s good. You like ’em blonde, brunette, black-haired, or ginger?”

“I don’t know,” Stevie says. Her voice is even quieter now. “Brown hair is nice, I guess.”

“Okay,” Frank says, rubbing his hands together as he scans the crowd. “One tiny, brown-haired dame for Steve, coming up.”

Bucky leans back from the table, more uncomfortable by the minute as the Dunleavy brothers work their way through every gal in the joint that meets Stevie’s criteria. They end up with a “short list” of three candidates, and ask Stevie which one she wants to try first.

“That one,” Stevie says. The blush on her cheeks hasn’t faded, but she’s determined now. They’ve put a challenge in front of her, and that means she isn’t going to quit until she’s given it her best shot. “She hasn’t danced once all night, so maybe she won’t expect me to, either?”

Frank shakes his head. “You are strange, Rogers,” he says. “But sure. So here’s what you do: Walk up, and ask her politely if the seat next to her is taken, or if she’s waiting for somebody.”

Stevie settles her shoulders. “Buck?” she asks. “Any advice?”

“Smile,” Bucky says, quiet and sincere. “And look her in the eye. Your eyes are—” He just barely stops himself from saying _beautiful_ in front of people who would find that a strange thing for him to say to another guy. “—your best feature.”

“See?” Frank says, slapping Bucky on the back. “James can be helpful, if you push him.”

“Thanks,” Stevie says, some of her earlier awkwardness coming back. “Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” Bucky says, unsure if he means it.

Stevie gets to her feet, tugs the cuffs of her shirt straight at her wrists, and walks over to the table where the gal she picked is sitting. Even from across the room, Bucky can see that Stevie’s cheeks turn bright red before she even gets a word out, but at least the girl and her friends don’t laugh at her. There’s a few moments of conversation, with hand gestures indicating the empty seat at their table.

Less than a minute later, Stevie is back, hands stuffed into her pockets and head ducked.

“So?” Frank asks. “What happened?”

Stevie shrugs. “Turned me down. Said she was flattered, but not interested.”

“Hey, chin up, Steve,” Frank says. (He glares at his brother when Herbert snorts into his beer.) “I’ve had worse rejections; trust me. Right, James?”

Bucky flinches. “Oh, yeah. All the time. At least she seemed nice about it?”

“Thanks,” Stevie says sarcastically. “That helps. Really.”

Bucky hopes, for Stevie’s sake, that that will be the end of it. He should have known better. Once Frank got an idea in his head, he was almost impossible to distract, and Stevie was the most stubborn person in the world. One little failure wasn’t going to slow them down. When Chester comes back to their table a while later, he gets in on it, too.

Bucky decides he can’t watch. He gets up and goes back to his usual routine of dancing his way through every available gal. (If he’s avoiding the brunettes just in case, well, he tries not to think about it.) He even finds one he thinks he might like to take outside for a nice necking session, a plump blonde by the name of Darlene who has a wicked little smile that promises trouble and fun in about equal proportions.

He’s just putting his finishing touches on his best move—ending a fast-paced dance with a quick kiss, and asking her if she has plans for later while she’s still out of breath—when Bucky hears something crash behind him. He sighs, pushes lovely Darlene to arm’s length, and says, “Excuse me for a moment.”

When he turns around, sure enough, he sees Stevie struggling to stand back up from where somebody has knocked her down (probably with one punch). It looks like she actually fell back into a table hard enough to tip it off-balance. The crash he heard was the drinks sliding off to the floor.

Bucky gets there just in time to make a grab for a man’s hand as he rears back to hit Stevie again. The aborted blow spins the man around, and now he’s facing Bucky instead.

“Whatever he said,” Bucky says quickly, hands up, “you got a good hit in, yeah? Are we square?”

The man glares at Bucky. “He thought he could just walk up and start talking to my girl.”

Stevie rubs the back of her hand over her lips, checking for blood. “She’s a grown woman, you know. If she didn’t want to talk to me, she could have said so herself.” She runs her tongue over her teeth, grimacing. “You got no right to make her decisions for her.”

“That’s it,” the man says. “I’m going to kill you, you little—”

“Sorry about this,” Bucky interrupts, and plants a solid punch on the man’s jaw.

Judging from the outraged roar, several of the nearby crowd just happen to be his good friends.

“Stevie?” Bucky asks, backing up as three guys come toward them all at once. “Do you have to do this _every_ time we go somewhere?”

“I didn’t ask him to hit me,” Stevie says, a little hotly. “And I didn’t ask you to hit him back, either.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says, sighing. “You never do.”

The brawl lasts approximately ten seconds before the bartender and one of the band members wade in to break it up. The owner appears, yelling, “Take it outside! Outside!”

Bucky has just one chance to glance over his shoulder, wondering if the Dunleavy brothers or Chester will back them up. The answer is no, of course. (Nobody ever wants to fight with Stevie, except for him.) He happens to make brief eye contact with Darlene, flashing her a smile, only to see her roll her eyes and turn away.

“Great,” Bucky says, as they stumble out into the alley. “Cost me a date, you little punk.”

It takes another couple of minutes to extract Stevie from the ensuing alley fight, which involves trying to fend off half-drunk opponents while literally dragging Stevie by the arm toward the main street. They get out with minimal injuries, considering the odds against them: one split lip, one busted knee, one set of ringing ears from hitting the doorframe while being tossed out, and an assortment of bruises.

“Every goddamn time, Stevie,” Bucky says, shaking his head as they walk home. (Slowly, because the effort of fighting in the thick heat has thoroughly messed up Stevie’s breathing.) “I swear, I can’t take you anywhere. This was about my promotion, remember?”

“This one wasn’t my fault,” Stevie says. She’s wheezing, but she’ll be all right in a little while, if Bucky can get her home in one piece and plant her on the couch. “I didn’t throw the first punch. Or the second, actually. You did.”

Bucky tips his head back to look at the stars. Like he could ever sit back and watch somebody beating the tar out of her without stepping in. “Hey,” he says. “I tried to stop it, first.”

Stevie gives him a flat look. “Good job with that one. You want a medal?”

“Punk,” Bucky says.

“Jerk.”

They get back to their apartment, and it’s not until Bucky is leaning against the kitchen counter, letting Stevie (standing on a stool, because she’s clearly never going to hit that growth spurt she was always promising) daub at the blood on his lip with a warm cloth, that they speak again.

“Why push things so far, anyway?” Bucky asks quietly.

“Hmm?” Stevie asks, distracted. She dips the cloth back into the bowl of steaming water.

“Flirting with a gal, taken or otherwise,” Bucky says. He tries to meet her eyes, but she’s focusing too intently on his mouth. “Seems like a lot to humor the Dunleavy brothers. I mean, what if you’d actually had a dame get interested? What would you have done then?”

Stevie’s hands go still. Her voice is very quiet as she says, “What if I wasn’t? Just humoring them?”

It takes Bucky a good few seconds to work out what that means. “Wait,” he says. (For some reason, his heartbeat is very loud in the silence of their kitchen.) “It’s not just you pretending? You actually ...” He licks his lips, because his mouth is dry. “You like girls? Like a real fella?”

Stevie flicks her eyes up to his for the barest instant, and then goes back to staring at her own feet. “I think so,” she says. “I didn’t mean to, but being ‘Steve’ sort of ... brought it out, I guess.” Her hands are twisting the cloth into a tight ring.

Bucky opens his mouth once, but no words come out. He’s not unfamiliar with the idea of being with somebody of the same gender—he lives in Brooklyn, after all, and everybody knows about the police raids and the ‘special’ bars, even if he’s never been to one himself—but it’s always men going with other men. Can girls be like that, too?

He clears his throat and tries again. “Not three weeks ago you told me you fancied Nathan Cunningham from the bakery,” he says. “Were you lying?” A horrible thought hits him, and he demands, “Did you think you had to pretend, or I’d get mad?”

“No,” Stevie says quickly. “I do fancy Nate, a little.” She drops the cloth back into the bowl and steps down off her stool. “I think I like both,” she murmurs, almost under her breath.

Bucky tries to make sense of that idea. “Can you do that?”

Stevie shrugs. “I think maybe it’s different for everybody,” she says. Her voice is still very quiet. “Or maybe it changes. I don’t know.”

Bucky suddenly notices Stevie’s posture—caved shoulders, downcast eyes, folded hands. She’s already small, but she’s doing everything she can to be smaller, like she’s trying to hide. Like she’s afraid, or expecting a blow, and that’s the worst thing Bucky’s ever seen. No matter how outnumbered or beat up, Stevie Rogers never shrinks away from taking a hit. Why would she be afraid of him?

“Hey,” Bucky says, leaning forward and lightly gripping her arms by the elbows. She flinches, but he ignores it and doesn’t let go. “Look at me.”

“Bucky ...”

“Please,” Bucky says.

Stevie lifts her head, and there are actual tears in the corners of her eyes. “Are you upset?” she asks.

Bucky stares at her for a moment. “A little shocked, maybe,” he admits. As much as he wants to brush this off and act like he’s perfectly fine with it, that wouldn’t be the truth, and he knows she’d prefer him to be honest. “I don’t understand it, Stevie. I really, really don’t.”

She opens her mouth, like maybe she’s going to argue or defend herself.

“But no,” Bucky interrupts, before she can say anything. “Of course I’m not upset.”

Stevie stares at him, mouth still open. “You’re not?” she asks.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “You still Stevie? Same as you’ve always been?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Okay, then,” Bucky says. “That’s what’s important.” He leans forward just enough to bump their foreheads together, because it’s comfortable and familiar and the same as always. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t understand, but Bucky’s never entirely understood why Stevie does a lot of things. He also wasn’t lying when he said that Stevie being herself was the most important thing to him. If this is who she is, then Bucky is going to be her best friend the only way he knows how.

By autumn, Bucky has shifted his priorities to look for dames that have a convenient sister, or cousin, or lonely friend that might need a date. It’s easy to tell them all the great things about ‘Steve,’ and why they ought to make their date a double. He never understands when it doesn’t go well, because how could you spend even just an hour with Stevie and not fall in love with her? What is it that Bucky can see that everyone else seems to miss?

By Christmas of 1936, Bucky is putting quite a bit of effort into finding Stevie a girlfriend (and being upset when gals keep turning her down). She gets a few dates here and there, but nobody seems to want to stick around for long.

It frustrates them both, but Bucky won’t let her give up.

“Somewhere out there is the right gal for you, Stevie,” he says, more than once. “We’ll find her. I promise.”

 

\--

Bucky settles into his sniper’s perch on the ridge line a good hour before the assault is supposed to begin. Below him, he can see the main approach to the former farmhouse that’s currently being used as a holding cell for HYDRA weaponry. There’s a main house, two-story with curtained windows, as well as a barn, silo, and guest cottage. There’s a well, in addition to a more modern water pump, with a dirt walkway linking them to the various buildings.

From his vantage point, Bucky mentally tags the approach lines for each of his team. Dugan and Stevie are slated to come right up the center toward the front door, using Stevie’s shield as a cover for return fire, if necessary. (There’s also a knee-high stone wall halfway to the main lane, marking the edge of the property, in a pinch.) With any luck, they’ll draw initial attention away from Jones and Dernier or Morita and Falsworth, who will be coming up from the side and rear. Dernier and Morita are on explosives duty, with Jones and Falsworth to cover them.

That leaves Bucky, almost a hundred yards away, to pick off enemies that get a little too close. In a way, he likes being able to provide covering fire from a distance, because it means he can keep an eye on everyone (Stevie) without having to worry about getting distracted at a critical moment. Unless the HYDRA goons have a sharpshooter of their own who somehow spots him in the dark, Bucky probably won’t be under fire at all.

On the other hand, everyone else is going to run right at the people shooting guns, while Bucky is safe on a ridge nearly three hundred feet away. He’s never been very good at letting Stevie charge into fights without him, and only the knowledge that this really is the best way to protect her keeps him in his perch instead of at her side.

It’s not a complicated plan, but it doesn’t need to be. They’ve been watching the house and surrounding area for ten hours now, and there seems to be only six hostiles present. One of those appears to be a scientist or a bureaucrat, not a fighter. As far as they can tell, once the sun set five of the six settled down to sleep, leaving just one person acting as a lookout. They’re deep enough into occupied territory that they clearly don’t expect an attack. (There was a Luftwaffe flyover just before dusk, but the Commandos heard the engines and got under cover.)

Bucky keeps his scope sweeping across the landscape, periodically returning to the lone lookout, who is positioned on the roof. The identity of the sentry has changed twice since dusk, making this the third of the five armed hostiles that have had the duty. This one seems to have a propensity for sitting with his back against the main farmhouse chimney, smoking a cigarette and occasionally shifting positions to look in a new direction. For one stretch of about thirty minutes, he’s on the side of the chimney opposite Bucky’s perch, which makes Bucky anxious at not having a clear shot.

By the agreed-upon attack time, though, the sentry has obligingly returned to the side nearest Bucky. It lines him up perfectly. The tiny glowing tip of his cigarette is just barely visible at that distance through the scope, and Bucky uses it to align his shot.

He takes a deep breath, releases it, and fires.

The sharp crack of his sniper rifle echoes around the dark French countryside, and on the roof a hundred yards away, the sentry slumps over dead. The cigarette, still burning, slips out from between suddenly slack lips and goes rolling across the roof, trailing pale smoke.

Bucky pulls the lever to eject the spent casing and load the next round. By the time he is able to focus through the scope again, the team has begun their approach, using the sound of his shot as their signal. Stevie and Dugan are pelting for the farmhouse front door, although Stevie is clearly holding back to avoid outstripping him.

They’ve just cleared the knee-high stone wall when Bucky starts to see movement through the scattered windows. As predicted, the shot has woken the HYDRA soldiers. Bucky is too far away to hear anything, barring gunshots or extremely loud yelling, but the lights that flicker on—gas lamps, probably, this far out in the country—and the subsequent shadows in the windows give him enough information.

By the time the first HYDRA soldier yanks back the curtains and sticks his head out a window, Bucky has already sighted the shot. The man gets out maybe two or three words—Bucky can see his mouth moving as he takes his pre-firing deep breath—before Bucky’s bullet shatters through his skull and drops him back inside the second-story room. He never even had a chance to point his pistol toward Stevie or Dugan.

Between the second crack of his sniper rifle and the few words the second target had managed to say, the farmhouse is now on full alert. Out front, Stevie and Dugan are maybe twenty feet from the door. To the side and rear, the rest of the team is breaking cover and streaking forward with their explosives, weapons drawn in case any of the hostiles spot them and take exception to their plan to blow all the stored equipment sky-high.

Stevie busts through the front door without breaking stride, shattering the whole frame on impact by slamming her shield into it at full speed. Dugan is right on her heels, and suddenly there’s not much Bucky can do. They’re inside the house, and barring a lucky hit through a window, he can’t cover them.

Gritting his teeth, he turns his attention to the other two sides of the farmhouse. Dernier and Jones are closer, because the tree line gave them better cover closer to the main house than Morita and Falsworth got on their side. They’ll reach the side and rear, respectively, about ten seconds apart.

Muzzle flashes explode from a side window, and Bucky is adjusting his rifle on instinct. Below, Dernier and Jones split, Dernier putting his head down and sprinting as Jones slides sideways and squeezes off a return shot. Around their feet, mud explodes upward as bullets impact the soft earth in a steady line—a submachine gun, then. A moment later, the sound reaches Bucky, a sharp rat-tat-tat of repetitive fire.

Bucky doesn’t have a good angle, but he fires once anyway, just to keep the enemy’s head down. He sees his bullet explode through the wood of the window frame. By the time Bucky gets his casing ejected, a round chambered, and a second shot lined up, Jones has already put a bullet through the man’s torso, which is a fantastic shot on foot, on the move, at night, from a bad angle. Then again, Stevie picked these men for a reason; every one of them would be the best shot on any other team.

Bucky moves on, sweeping his scope across the field and back, trying to find a target.

By the time Dernier reaches the relative safety of the farmhouse wall, Bucky has managed to wound another man who was brave—and stupid—enough to run out the back door from the kitchen. Unfortunately, he fell to the ground and rolled under the porch, so Bucky can’t be sure it was a kill shot. He’s not unduly worried though; he got him in the lower chest or upper stomach, so the odds of him causing more trouble are slim. If he doesn’t bleed out, the explosion will take care of him.

Bucky counts off the enemy in his head: the sentry on the roof, the first responder in the upper window, the man Jones got on his side, and the wounded man under the porch. That leaves one armed hostile and the noncombatant as the only HYDRA goons left, and presumably Stevie and Dugan are handling those indoors. The area is contained, or at least it should be.

Bucky knows better than to assume their intelligence is good, though, so even after Dernier has finished placing his charges and moved to help Morita rig up his explosives on the other side, he stays put and keeps scanning. It would be just like HYDRA to have an entire platoon stationed in a storm cellar or something, just waiting to pour out like termites.

When the front door opens again, though, it’s not HYDRA reinforcements who come out, but Stevie and Dugan. Bucky doesn’t see any blood on either of them, although Stevie’s ridiculous outfit and the darkness make it hard to tell for sure.

Stevie has her shield clipped between her shoulders, but her sidearm is still out, aimed safely at the ground in front of her as she jogs over toward Dernier and Morita. Her other hand is gesturing widely, and Bucky can see her mouth moving in a series of quick orders, although he’s much too far away to hear her. Whatever she said must have been important, though, because Dernier and Morita finish laying the explosives and rapidly move on to the barn.

Meanwhile, Falsworth and Jones abandon their initial job of covering the others and take out the last of the explosives from the pack to place around the silo. They must be in a hurry, which makes Bucky wonder what Stevie found in that farmhouse that prompted a rush. A radio, maybe? If one of the HYDRA goons managed to call in the attack, they could have a whole company here before long.

Still, Bucky waits in his perch until he sees the rest of the team get clear in the woods. He turns his eyes away at the first fireball of the explosion, not wanting to damage his night vision. Once the blasts have stopped—his ears are going to be ringing for a while, after that—he checks what’s left of the farmhouse.

The main house and guest cottage are gone, nothing but kindling and burning craters. The barn fared a little better, but well over half the roof is caved in and the walls are nothing but smoldering ruins. The silo has collapsed on itself, then fallen partially sideways, burning fiercely. Whatever was stored in that must have been highly flammable.

Bucky’s not sure what they were sent here to destroy—that was considered need-to-know, and he’s not even sure if Stevie was told—but he’s confident in saying that they were successful. There’s nothing salvageable from the flaming wreckage, not even if fire crews showed up right now to try to contain the damage. Not bad, for a first mission.

Bucky packs up his equipment, slings his rifle over his shoulder, and hikes to the rendezvous point.

When he arrives, he finds the rest of the team waiting on him. They manage a veneer of professional calm as Bucky gives his report— _All clear, Cap; target completely destroyed_ —but the moment he finishes speaking, their faces break into wide grins. Jones even lets out a little whoop of excitement.

“Is it always going to be this easy?” Morita asks. “We hardly took any fire, let alone any casualties.”

“You complaining?” Dugan asks gruffly.

“I imagine this was a sort of test,” Falsworth points out, still smiling. “They’ll give us harder objectives, now.”

Dernier shrugs and speaks French.

Jones laughs. “He says it was nice while it lasted,” he translates.

Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off Stevie during the whole exchange. “You all right?” he asks quietly.

Stevie nods. She’s been staring at him, too. “You’re late. You okay?”

“Hey, I’m fine.” Bucky smirks at her. “Nobody was shooting at me.”

“It’d be just like you to find trouble anyway,” Stevie says.

“Not my area,” Bucky reminds her. “I spent half my childhood dragging you _out_ of trouble, remember?”

“You still are,” Stevie says quietly. “Nice shooting, by the way.”

Dugan jostles Stevie’s elbow, still grinning. “Hey, knock it off, Cap,” he says jokingly. “No playing favorites with your boyfriend, huh?”

Bucky’s first instinct is to get defensive, but he reins in his temper when he notices that Stevie jostles Dugan right back and rolls her eyes. Something has changed between them, something that’s easy and friendly now where it was strained only a few hours earlier.

(Bucky later learns that while inside the main house, Dugan had gone around a corner in the hallway and walked straight into the last HYDRA soldier. The man had put a gun to Dugan’s head, trying to use him as a hostage or human shield to slip past Stevie. She had put her gun down, and then when he assumed she was no longer a threat, she had thrown her shield to take him out. Dugan escaped with nothing but a bruised ego, and a sudden conviction that Captain Stephanie Rogers was a damn fine soldier and a C.O. he’d be proud to fight under, “no matter what might or mightn’t be between her legs.”)

“Let’s go,” Stevie says, businesslike. “We’ve got some ground to cover before the Germans come to investigate that explosion.”

Just like that, the celebration stops. “Yes, sir,” the men chorus, and spread out into the trees without having to speak a word to each other to coordinate.

Bucky takes his place at the rear, keeping an eye on the others, and finally lets himself smile. If he were a betting man, he’d put his money on not a single one of them asking for a transfer when they get back. For better or worse, they’re a team, now. Woman or not, they’re going to follow Captain America, right into the jaws of death like she promised.

_Good job, Stevie,_ he thinks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for homophobic comments: In this chapter, Dugan refers to Bucky being in love with (presumably male) Stevie as “being wired wrong.” In addition, Bucky makes some comments that are very heteronormative in nature when he finds out Stevie has an interest in women.


	5. Chapter 5

The post-mission debriefing when they get back to camp is relatively short, as far as those go. Bucky sits silently next to Stevie, watching the brass as they listen to her report. Whether it’s because it’s their first mission, or just because it’s Captain America, there’s an oddly high number of officers present, including two colonels in addition to Phillips and even one brigadier general from the regular US Army, not the SSR. (He’s sitting in the back, watching and listening, sort of like Bucky. It’s unnerving.)

The rest of the team is waiting on them when they finally get dismissed, and Stevie tells them they have four days to rest and recuperate before they’re due for another brief. It’s a quick turnaround for an advance team, but they don’t care; they’re eager now, still coming down off the high of an easy mission. Stevie tells them to enjoy the downtime while they can.

Bucky’s first stop is the mess, because three days of K-rations have left him feeling lean and hungry. Then it’s the showers and a nice long nap until it’s time to eat again. After that, he goes in search of a drink ( _relax, Dugan, just one to take the edge off_ ) and a pack of cigarettes to pass the evening.

Stevie finds him like that, sitting on a grassy patch of ground, arms around his knees with a flask in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other. She doesn’t say anything, just sits down next to him and stares out into the twilight at the edge of the camp. She’s swapped out her costume for a regular captain’s dress uniform, which isn’t meant for sitting on the damp ground. She doesn’t seem to care.

They pass most of an hour that way, watching the sun go down in silence.

Eventually, Stevie says, “Are you okay?”

Bucky blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth, automatically angling it away from Stevie even though he knows she doesn’t have asthma anymore. Old habits.

“You want me to say yes?” he asks. His voice is flat, and a little hoarse from the harsh combination of tobacco and whiskey.

Stevie sighs. “You could try telling me the truth,” she offers.

Bucky puts out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, then tosses it into the night. He tries to find words for the thoughts spinning through his head.

“I used to see them, you know,” Bucky says quietly. “Every time I closed my eyes.”

Stevie just watches him, face impassive. “See them?” she prompts.

Bucky turns his face away. “The people I’ve killed.” He unscrews the cap of his flask and takes a long swallow. It should burn, going down. It doesn’t. “Every single one, like a series of photographs, only in vivid color.”

Stevie doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t walk away, either.

“That’s the thing about being a sniper,” Bucky tells her. “You always get a good view. You always know when you’ve made a kill shot.” He screws the cap back onto the flask and drops it to the ground. “I used to see it in my dreams, every bullet I’ve ever fired. The particular way that a body crumples and falls. I never knew any of their names, but I remembered their faces.”

“Bucky …” She puts her hand on his shoulder, trying to be reassuring. “That’s perfectly normal. Of _course_ it upsets you, to have to kill someone.”

“You aren’t listening,” Bucky says. It comes out a little harsher than he intends. “I _used_ to see them.”

Stevie looks briefly taken aback. “You don’t anymore?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not for a while, now,” he says. He’s smiling, but he knows it’s bitter and grim. “I killed three people last night, and I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what any of them looked like.” He shrugs again. “I don’t care anymore. I can’t even remember why I used to.”

“Bucky …”

“That should scare me,” Bucky says. “But it doesn’t even do that. It’s just … what I’ve become.” He laughs once, humorlessly. “I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

Stevie’s throat works for a moment before she can get words out. “Do you want to get out?” she asks. “Go home?”

Bucky turns to look at her, face hard. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“Everybody else volunteered,” Stevie says. “But you never got a chance, did you? I just assumed you’d come with me, like always. Everyone did.”

“Stevie,” Bucky says, voice and face serious. “When have I ever let you wade into a fight without me?”

“Does it make me a horrible person if I tell you that I’m glad?” she says, like a confession. “I don’t think I could do this, without you.”

“You could,” Bucky says instantly. “But you won’t have to.”

They sit in silence for a while after that, until the stars are all out over their heads.

“I know I’m a mess,” Bucky whispers into the darkness. He doesn’t look at her. It’s easier if he pretends he’s just talking to himself. “I’m not so far gone that I don’t see it. But I can still protect you.”

“Bucky …”

“Let me protect you,” Bucky whispers. “Please. It’s the only thing I was ever good at.”

She sighs. “I could protect myself, if I had to. I’d be all right, if you went home.” She shifts on the ground, uncomfortable. “It would be hard—I’d hate every second of it, actually—but I’d get along without you. As long as I knew you were home. Safe.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But I wouldn’t.”

“Buck …”

“I mean it, Stevie,” Bucky tells her. “You’re the only thing holding me together.” He feels his body start to shake, and he disguises it the best he can. “You keep me sane. Keep me focused.”

“Okay,” she says. She reaches over and briefly squeezes his hand, trusting to the darkness to hide it from curious eyes. “You protect me, and I’ll keep you grounded.”

Bucky nods, mouth dry.

“Together,” Stevie says, like a vow. “We’ll make it through, Buck. We will. I promise.”

Bucky’s not so sure about that, but he lets it go. He sends Stevie away ( _Don’t you have a girl to go see, Captain?_ ) and waits there at the edge of the camp, looking out into the darkness, until it starts to make him feel sick. He’s too jittery to sleep and too weary to do anything else, so he snags a box of extra rounds and makes his way to the practice range.

In the darkness, nothing but his rifle and his target, is the closest Bucky can get to peace these days.

 

\--

 

The third time that Bucky kisses Stevie, he’s twenty-one years old. It’s not even his fault this time, because she’s the one who starts it.

It’s a Sunday afternoon, and Bucky’s parents are sitting at the kitchen table after church. They have Sunday dinner together at least once a month or so, usually at his folks’ place, occasionally with Stevie tagging along. This time, though, his parents decide to let Bucky host, so it’s the four of them having a family dinner in his and Stevie’s cramped kitchen.

(Bucky cooks, because he’s not feeding anything Stevie made to his Ma. He lets her chop the vegetables, though, and subsequently take some of the credit.)

Bucky’s parents know about Stevie going around pretending to be a fella, of course, and it’s clear that they don’t approve. Although, to be fair, his Pa doesn’t approve of Stevie in general, and didn’t even when she was a “proper” girl, while his Ma is mostly just upset that Bucky hasn’t bought Stevie a ring and started living together “the right way.” (Bucky’s Ma has been planning their wedding for going on about ten years, now, and nothing is ever going to convince her that it’ll never happen. Bucky’s stopped trying.)

In an effort to head off some of the arguing, Stevie has pulled out one of the dresses that she hardly ever wears anymore. She even puts a bit of ribbon in her short hair, like a flapper girl, and wears heels. She’ll have to duck into the bedroom in a hurry if any of the neighbors come calling—which makes Bucky lock the front door—but she’s determined to try to play peacemaker with his folks.

“It’s just clothes, Buck,” she had said earlier that day. “If it’ll make him more comfortable, I don’t mind.”

“I don’t see why you wearing men’s clothes makes Pa uncomfortable in the first place,” Bucky had grumbled, but he didn’t argue. Once Stevie got an idea in her head, there was no talking her out of it.

“Besides,” Stevie said, twirling once on the wooden floorboards. “I miss it. A little. Sometimes.”

Bucky had just managed to keep himself from saying that he missed it, too, sometimes. This particular dress was light blue and cream, and it brought out the nice color of her eyes. It hugged her slim frame and flared a little at the hips, giving her the illusion of curves she didn’t really have. It looked good on her, and Bucky told her so.

Of course, he isn’t impartial, and he knows it. The very first time she put on one of his old shirts three years ago, just to see how much she’d have to take it in to make it fit, Bucky had nearly swallowed his tongue. He’d had to have a coughing fit to cover it up. Something about seeing her in _his clothes_ did things to him that he never lets himself think about for very long. He was both relieved and strangely disappointed when she started buying pants and shirts of her own.

Unfortunately for Stevie’s plan, Bucky’s Ma’s peace of mind, Bucky’s Pa’s Sunday shirt, and Bucky’s temper, her dressing “like a real girl” doesn’t have the intended effect.

They’ve just finished the meal, and before Bucky can get up to gather the plates, Stevie jumps up to do it instead. He doesn’t get out a single word before she’s patting him on the shoulder and saying, “I’ve got it; you did most of the cooking, anyway. Visit with your folks.”

She stacks everything up neatly and carries it all to the sink, running some water for washing.

“Humph,” Bucky’s Pa says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “What’s gotten into her?” he asks, in a normal voice that Stevie can’t help but hear, seeing as how she’s just a few feet away across the small kitchen.

“Henry,” Bucky’s Ma says, quietly. There’s a warning in her voice, like maybe they had this conversation in the car on the way over here.

“No, I want to know,” Bucky’s Pa says. “I mean, thank God she’s finally over this wanting to be a man business, but what’s prompted the sudden urge to be domestic?” His eyes narrow slightly. “Oh, Lord, you didn’t get her pregnant, did you, son?”

Bucky very much wants to put his forehead down on the table. “No, Pa,” he says, firmly. “And she can speak for herself, you know.”

Behind Bucky’s Pa’s back, at the sink, Stevie turns her head just enough to give Bucky a brief smile. (She also rolls her eyes, a little.) “Just felt like a bit of a change, today,” she says brightly, up to her elbows in soap bubbles. “Pretending to be a fella every day gets old, after a while. Sometimes it’s nice to remember I can be a gal, too.”

“Not much of one,” Bucky’s Pa says. It’s _just barely_ quieter than his normal speaking voice, enough that Stevie can pretend not to hear it, even though there’s no way she didn’t. “Never were.”

Bucky lets his hands drop to the table, so that his fists make a thumping sound on the wood. “Okay, enough,” he says. “If you can’t be civil, can’t you at least be quiet, Pa?”

“I ain’t said nothing that she ain’t heard before,” Bucky’s Pa says, as if this makes it somehow okay. “And from people other than me, too, I’ll wager.”

Bucky turns helplessly to his mother.

“Henry,” Bucky’s Ma tries again. “We were having such a nice family dinner.”

Bucky’s Pa snorts. “Family?” he repeats. “Last I checked, _her_ last name wasn’t Barnes.”

“Well,” Bucky’s Ma says, clasping her hands together. “Not _yet_ , but—”

“Ma!” Bucky says. He puts both hands over his face and rubs at his forehead. “Can we not have this conversation again, please?” He drops his hands and turns his attention back to his father. “And I don’t care what her last name is, Stevie _is_ family. Don’t ever let me catch you saying something like that again.”

Bucky’s Pa’s face goes hard. “What did you just say to me, boy?”

“Hey,” Stevie says quickly, reaching for the dish towel to dry off her hands so she can turn around without dripping all over the floor. “Let’s not argue, all ri—”

“You heard me,” Bucky interrupts, staring his Pa down. “I won’t stand for you coming here and saying things like that to my best friend.”

“I am your father, young man,” Bucky’s Pa says hotly. “And I will not be spoken to like that.”

“This is our apartment,” Bucky says, just as heatedly. “And I won’t stand for you speaking that way to Stevie. She’s as much a part of this family as you are.”

“Bucky,” Stevie says quietly. “Don’t fight with your father on my account.”

“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head at her. “I’m tired of it. I’ve had to listen to it for twelve years, and I’m tired of it. I’m done humoring him or making excuses.”

“Don’t you talk about me like I’m not in the room,” Bucky’s Pa says.

“It’s rude, isn’t it?” Bucky asks wryly. “See why I don’t like it when you do it to Stevie?”

The exact sequence of events after that is a little fuzzy in Bucky’s mind. Either he or his Pa stands up, leaning over the table to better yell at each other, and the other one mirrors him. The shouting gets louder, and Bucky’s Ma pushes her chair back out of the way. Stevie does her best to get in between them without having to crawl on top of the table itself. Her attempts to pull Bucky backward don’t move him in the slightest.

“—many times did you come home with a black eye because _she_ got you in some kind of—”

“—never did give her a chance, or try to understand her at all—”

“—should calm down, and talk about this in a—”

“—for the life of me why her mother let her grow up to be so _unnatural_ , or why you encourage her—”

The next thing Bucky knows, he’s looking down at his Pa, who is sprawled on the floor. The flare of pain in Bucky’s knuckles tells him he threw a punch. So does his Pa’s split lip. It’s sluggishly bleeding, running a trail of red down his Pa’s chin and dripping on his best white shirt.

“ _Now_ look what you’ve done,” Bucky’s Ma says, despairing. “Blood is the worst to try to wash out.”

“Um. I could try?” Stevie says, in a tone of voice that says she’s not sure what else to say in the sudden silence. “I’ve had a lot of practice, at least.”

Bucky shakes out his fist. “I think it’s time you went home,” he tells his Ma, apologetically.

“Yes,” his Ma says, still wringing her hands. “Well. We’ll see you next month, James dear.”

Bucky ignores his father entirely in favor of kissing his Ma on the cheek and disappearing into the bathroom while they gather up their things and leave. Dimly, he can hear Stevie offering his Pa a cold cloth for his lip, then telling them to have a good afternoon at the door. (He worries, for a moment, that she’s going to walk them out to their car and risk their neighbors seeing her in a dress.)

He doesn’t realize that he’s staring at his knuckles, one of which is busted and bleeding, until Stevie takes his hand and pulls it gently to the bathroom sink to run some cold water over the cut. He hisses slightly at the burst of pain, but he doesn’t jerk his hand out of the flow. Stevie gives his fingers a reassuring squeeze and goes to get the antiseptic. It’s probably too small of a cut to make such a fuss, but Bucky doesn’t stop her. He knows, on some level, that she’s probably feeling a little guilty—which is dumb, because this was Bucky’s Pa’s fault, not hers—and she needs a chance to try to fix the damage.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” she tells him quietly. She’s jumped up to sit on the bathroom counter, and Bucky’s hand is resting on her thigh while she cleans his knuckle. “He’s always been a bit mean, and he’s never liked me, but he _is_ your father.”

“Lucky me,” Bucky says dryly. “And don’t even pretend that he wasn’t upsetting you. If it had been anybody else saying things like that, you’d have punched them yourself.”

“Yeah,” Stevie says, shrugging. “But nobody ever accused you of needing to be more like me, did they? You’re supposed to be the reasonable one.”

Bucky shakes his head. “He said you weren’t family,” he says quietly. “How was I supposed to be reasonable about that?”

“Well,” Stevie says, squeezing the rag out under the water, trying to get the blood to wash out. “I’m not, you know. Technically.”

“Yes you are,” Bucky says immediately.

When she drops her head, looking at her feet, Bucky puts a finger under her chin and tilts her head back up so that she’s looking at him.

“Yes you are,” he repeats. “Bucky and Stevie, always. Remember?”

Stevie smiles at him, slowly, still a little sad. Wistful, maybe. “Yeah. Bucky and Stevie.”

She gets up, then, and leaves the bathroom.

Bucky frowns. “Stevie?” he asks, turning around to follow her. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, just walks toward her bedroom door.

Bucky catches her in the doorway and lightly grabs her wrist, not tight enough that she couldn’t slip free, but enough to stop her. “Hey,” he says. “Talk to me. Is it my folks? Just ignore them, all right? Especially my Pa.”

Stevie turns around to face him, still standing in the bedroom doorway. “Do you think he’s right, about me?” she asks quietly. “I mean, I always _was_ sort of rubbish at being a girl, but do you think I should go back?”

Bucky hesitates. “What I think isn’t important,” he says after a moment. “Or anybody else, for that matter. The only thing that matters is what _you_ think.”

Stevie meets his eyes, and she looks oddly lost. Bucky’s not used to seeing Stevie Rogers look uncertain.

“What if I don’t know what I want?” she asks him, biting her bottom lip.

Bucky smiles. “One thing you’ve never lacked is an opinion,” he points out. He thinks for a moment. “Are there things about pretending to be a fella that you like?” he asks.

“People aren’t so patronizing,” Stevie says immediately. “Getting work is easier. I don’t get so many funny looks when I go out alone, even at night.” She tilts her head, considering. “Pants are more comfortable than skirts. Don’t have to worry so much about how I sit.”

“Okay, then. Are you happy, being Steve?” he asks. “Do you like drawing for the paper and living with me and going out with the guys on weekends and flirting with dames at a bar?”

“Yeah, of course,” Stevie says. “I guess I just wish I could do all those things and be a gal at the same time. I don’t _mind_ being Steve, or letting people think I’m a fella. I just miss being Stephanie, sometimes.”

“So be both,” Bucky offers. “Who says you have to pick one?”

Stevie gives him a strange look. “I think people might notice if ‘Steve’ suddenly decided to wear skirts.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “So be Steve around here, but maybe sometimes we can go back to the old neighborhood, or someplace people don’t know us at all, and you can be Stephanie there. If you want.”

She’s still looking at him funny. “You wouldn’t mind?” she asks. “It wouldn’t be, I don’t know, confusing?”

“Why?” Bucky asks. “It doesn’t make any difference. Boy or girl, Steve or Stephanie.” He shrugs. “All you changed was your name and some clothes. You’re Stevie either way, to me.”

She smiles at him, and leans forward to give him a hug. Bucky hugs her back, tucking her head under his chin, careful not to squeeze her narrow shoulders too hard. It’s so strange, how tiny and frail she seems in his arms, when the truth is that she’s one of the least fragile people he’s ever known.

“Thanks, Buck,” Stevie says. She tilts her head back away from his chest, and Bucky immediately leans down to press his forehead to hers. It’s an automatic response, after all these years. “For standing up to your Pa for me, even if I wish you hadn’t. It means a lot.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’ll always choose you, over anybody in the world. You know that, right?”

She stares at him, obviously shocked. (He doesn’t know why; it’s just the truth. Always has been.)

“Bucky,” Stevie says, and it comes out an awed whisper.

Bucky is suddenly nine years old again, with that warm feeling spreading through his chest. He knows what it means, now. All these years later, and he still thinks that he’d be okay with her looking at him like that anytime she wants. (Forever. Please, forever.)

Then she kisses him.

It’s awkward and obviously done on impulse. Bucky hardly has time to register what’s happening before she pulls back, a horrified look on her face. (She also turns bright red almost immediately.)

“Sorry,” Stevie says, stepping further backward. “I didn’t mean—I mean—I shouldn’t have—”

Bucky realizes that he’s staring, and makes himself blink. “It’s fine,” he says. It comes out a little strangled.

“No, it isn’t,” Stevie says. She has her hands up, like she’s trying to ward him off. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, wait,” Bucky says, because she’s through her bedroom door now and looks like she’s about to close it in his face. “Just—hang on for a minute. Can we talk about this?”

“No,” Stevie says flatly.

She starts to shut the door, but Bucky puts his foot in the way.

“Stevie, will you just—”

“It was a mistake, okay?” Stevie says. She’s looking anywhere and everywhere except his face. “I didn’t mean it.”

“You didn’t mean it?” Bucky repeats. He swallows. “Because you don’t really feel that way,” he says, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Not about me, anyway.”

Stevie freezes, both hands on the bedroom door like she’s considering shoving it closed hard enough to force his foot out of the way. “Because you’re my best friend,” she says, very quietly. “I’d rather be your buddy Steve than just another one of your girls.”

Bucky feels like she’s punched him. “You could never be _just_ anything,” he tells her. “You’re …” He doesn’t have a word to finish that sentence that wouldn’t sound trite or childish. “You’re Stevie,” he says helplessly. “You’re not going to stop being my best friend, even if …” He trails off.

“Even if what?” Stevie asks, wary.

Bucky licks his lips. “We could just, you know, try it,” he says, a little nervously. “A proper kiss, to find out if we like it, or not. Once and for all.”

Stevie watches him for a moment, clearly thinking. “And if we try this …” She has to stop and gather herself. “If we go down this road and it doesn’t work, then what?”

Bucky’s heart is pounding so hard he’s sure she can hear it. “Then we go right back to how we’ve always been,” he says, more confidently than he feels. “At least we’d know for sure.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

“Come on, Stevie. We’ve been friends for twelve years; you really think we’re going to mess that up over one little kiss?”

She hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is almost too quiet to hear. “What if we try this, and it _does_ work? What do we do then?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says honestly. His breathing is off, and it’s starting to make him feel lightheaded. “But don’t you want to find out?”

Stevie closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she’s made her decision. Bucky can tell by the way she steadies her feet and squares her shoulders, like she’s gathering her courage before she throws a punch.

“All right,” she says.

“Really?” Bucky asks, taken aback. (He hadn’t expected that to work.)

Stevie’s face, which had just recovered from her first blush, starts to turn pink again. “All right,” she says again, a little firmer. She takes one step out of the doorway and back toward him, arms awkwardly at her sides. “Um, how do I … ?”

Bucky clears his throat, trying to remember how to form words. “Just,” he says. His mouth is dry, and he’s having trouble getting his heartbeat under control. “Let me?”

Stevie nods once.

Bucky steps forward to meet her, hands slipping naturally around her thin waist. He pulls her just a fraction closer, watching as she tilts her head back to maintain eye contact. “Here,” he says. “Put your arms around my neck.”

She does. He pretends not to notice that her hands are trembling, just a little. Is she as nervous as he is?

“Like this?” Stevie asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah,” Bucky says in a rush of breath, and he leans down and kisses her.

He does it slow and sweet, just the barest pressure, and keeps his hands stationary at her waist. It’s a perfect first-date sort of kiss, just enough to leave an impression, not enough to be improper.

When he pulls his head back a moment later, Stevie is scowling at him.

“That bad?” Bucky asks, stomach sinking.

“Don’t kiss me like my Pa is watching you through the window,” Stevie says, clearly annoyed. “Did you want to really try this, or not?”

Bucky stares at her.

She’s blushing harder, now, but she’s as determined as ever. “Well?” she demands, something fiery in her eyes. “You going to kiss me like you mean it, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky’s reacting before he can think better of it. One hand goes to the small of her back, and the other to the side of her neck. He uses the new grip to pull her tight to him, until she’s pressed flush against him from shoulder to hips. When Stevie lets out a little gasp, probably in surprise, he doesn’t hesitate; he uses the hand on her neck to tilt her head and get the angle he wants, and presses his mouth to hers.

This kiss is very different, heated and almost desperate. A sound he didn’t know he could make uncurls from somewhere low in the back of his throat, and he doesn’t realize that he’s pushing forward until Stevie’s back hits the wall next to the door.

The impact knocks their teeth together, and it jars them apart. They stare at each other for a moment, still pressed tightly together. They’re both breathing a little harder than the kiss itself should have caused.

Stevie blinks once, and starts to giggle. It’s probably just nerves, but it startles Bucky into a full-throated laugh. A moment later, they’re leaning up against the wall and each other, cracking up.

“Buck, honestly,” Stevie says around chuckles, shaking her head. She keeps her hands around his neck, though, and doesn’t pull away or try to put any distance between them. “We’re awful at this.”

“Nah, it’s just you,” Bucky says, grinning. “I’m usually good at it.”

Stevie snorts. “Oh, really? Because I’ve watched you kissing all your girls, and you never seem to keep one around for very long.”

“Kept you around, didn’t I?” Bucky asks.

“Doesn’t count,” Stevie says, shaking her head. “You don’t use kissing to keep me around.”

“Well.” Bucky leans forward, but instead of tipping his forehead down onto hers the way he normally would, he hovers just out of kissing range instead. “I could give it a try,” he says suggestively, voice gone low and soft.

Stevie flushes pink again, and he’s close enough to feel the heat as it radiates off her skin.

Bucky turns slightly and places a soft, feathery kiss to the side of her head, somewhere between her temple and her ear. When her breath hitches, just a bit, he grins, knowing she can feel the way his lips move. He drifts across her skin, leaving fluttery kisses as he goes, down her jaw to the open collar of her dress. He’s rewarded when her head falls back against the wall, giving him better access.

“What do you mean,” Bucky asks, pressing the words into her throat, “you watched me kissing all my girls?” He grins when he feels her hands tighten on the back of his neck. “You taking notes, punk?”

“Why?” Stevie asks. She swallows once, which makes her throat pulse beneath Bucky’s lips. “You looking for a critique or something?”

Bucky hums noncommittally. He drifts his way back up the side of her neck, soft and light, until he reaches the hollow behind her ear. Once there, he switches to an open-mouthed kiss, wet and hungry. She doesn’t quite manage to stifle her little gasp, and Bucky pulls back triumphantly.

“How am I doing so far?” he asks, grinning ear-to-ear.

Stevie is mock-glaring at him. “You’re a smug jerk, Bucky Barnes,” she says. Her voice wavers just slightly, and the sound sends a thrill through him. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

“Just you,” Bucky admits. “Usually about three times a week.”

Stevie’s glare is somewhat undercut by the fondness he can see in her eyes. It takes his breath away, the way she looks at him sometimes, like he’s the best part of her world. (Like he’s the special one, when anybody with sense can see that he’s perfectly normal, and Stevie is the amazing one.)

Bucky reaches out with one hand and brushes the tips of his fingers through her short hair. “Don’t know why you put up with me, to be honest,” he says quietly.

“I don’t know,” Stevie says, smiling at him. “It just makes me stupid, I guess, how much I love you.”

There’s a moment of silence. Her eyes slowly widen as she realizes what she’s just said.

“God, Stevie, we are such idiots,” Bucky whispers, staring at her. “I think I’ve loved you since I was nine years old.”

Her eyebrows come together, and she smacks him in the shoulder. “Jerk,” she says. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “The first time I kissed you, you punched me!”

“We were kids,” she says. “And you only did it on a dare!”

“Okay, fine, but the second time I kissed you, you acted like it never happened,” he points out. “I thought I’d almost ruined everything.”

She gapes at him. “You were _drunk_ ,” she says. “You didn’t mean it!”

“I meant it,” Bucky says quietly. “I’ve always meant it, Stevie. Always will.”

She kisses him again, after that, and the whole thing is messy and uncoordinated. Stevie in particular is clumsy and unpracticed, but Bucky doesn’t care. She’s got the general idea, and her hands get brave and start to wander across his shoulders and down his back. When her fingers move up to curl in his hair, it just might be the best feeling in the world.

It makes him dizzy, and part of him wants to check to be sure he isn’t dreaming. The rest of him is too busy hoping he never wakes up again. He’s actually _shaking_ , like all the feelings coursing through him are too strong to contain, like they’re going to rip him apart. It terrifies him, because he already knew how he felt about her—has for years—but it’s almost too much, after suppressing it for so long.

“I can _feel_ you thinking,” Stevie hisses in his ear, when they come up for air. “Stop it.”

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky says, breathless. “This is dangerous.” He swallows. “This could get away from us. From me. In a hurry.”

“We’re going to have a very long, very serious conversation,” she promises him.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. That’s good.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Stevie says. It comes out like an impatient growl, which does all sorts of interesting things to his stomach. “We’re going to have it _later_.”

“Right,” Bucky says, and actually picks her up off the ground, making her yelp and scramble for a grip on his shoulders.

Luckily her bed isn’t very far away.

The promised conversation does eventually happen, and they decide that nothing has to change. Stevie is still ‘Steve’ everywhere but inside the apartment, and they don’t act any differently most of time even when they’re at home. It’s the exact same relationship they’ve always had, just with more kissing, and they sleep in the same bed at night even when the weather is warm, instead of just when Stevie needs the extra body-heat.

They still go out on the weekends, and find girls to go on double dates. They still get in fights everywhere they go. Stevie still gets bad asthma attacks and catches the flu when the weather turns.

It’s not the life everybody always told Bucky he should want, but he doesn’t care. He’s got his best friend by his side everywhere he goes, and the girl he’s always loved in his arms at night. (The fact that they happen to be the same person is just a nice perk.) They’ve both got good work to pay the rent and keep food on the table, and that’s all they really need. They’ll figure everything else out as they go.

Bucky, with all the wisdom and confidence of his twenty-one years, thinks that he could live the rest of his life like this and have everything he could ever want.

It’s September of 1938, and one year later, Europe will be at war.

 

\--

 

By the time dawn arrives, Bucky’s impromptu all-night shooting session has worked through most of his bad humor. He’s not happy or relaxed, exactly, but his dark mood has cleared. He’s just Bucky again, not the pre-war model he can barely remember, but Bucky-the-sniper, Bucky-the-Sergeant, Bucky-the-Commando. He has a job to do, and that’s enough for now.

He decides to finish off the box of bullets before he leaves, and he’s four shots away when he hears someone approaching him. He settles in his prone position, sighting the target, and releases his breath in a slow rush. He waits for that perfect moment, when something in his blood tells him the shot is right, and fires.

“Very nice,” a voice says, once the crack of the gunshot has faded. It’s British, upper-class, and female. “I thought I might find you out here, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Agent Carter,” Bucky says, still on the ground. He pulls the bolt to release the casing and slots the next bullet into place.

“I was hoping I might speak with you, if that’s all right,” Carter says.

Bucky turns his head away from his scope to glance at her. She’s sitting on the wall of sandbags that mark the edge of the range, impeccably dressed in her uniform for such an early hour. She’s got that same fire in her that Bucky always liked about Stevie, but without Stevie’s confrontational attitude. Here is a woman who managed to make it to the war without having to lie. Instead of breaking rules and picking fights, her strategy is finding ways around the obstacles in her path. It’s a quieter kind of strength, but Bucky wonders if that isn’t harder, in the long run. (He sees why Stevie likes her.)

Bucky puts his eye back to his scope and sights his next target. “What can I do for you, Agent Carter?” he asks.

She politely waits until after his next shot, understanding the etiquette involved in interrupting a sniper, before she speaks again. “Perhaps we should talk in a more private location, Sergeant.”

Bucky smirks. “The closest person is sixty yards away, at my eight-o-clock,” he says pointedly. He ejects the casing and loads the next round, hands moving almost without conscious thought. “We’re as private as we’re going to get, in a place like this.”

Carter glances where he’d indicated, presumably checking his perimeter report. When she looks at him again, she’s smiling faintly. “Captain Rogers said you were good.”

“Well,” Bucky says, shrugging a little. “She’s never been very impartial.”

Bucky gets off another shot before she says anything else.

“Can I be frank, Sergeant?” Carter asks suddenly.

“You can call me James, you know,” Bucky says. “I’m not one for formality.”

“James?” she repeats. There’s a crooked little smile on her face. “Not the ‘Bucky’ that I’ve heard so much about?”

Bucky sighs. “Stevie has got to stop calling me that in public,” he says. “Half the Allied forces think it’s actually my name.”

“James, then,” Carter says. “I suppose that makes me Margaret, if you like.”

Bucky actually laughs. “That’s fair. Margaret.” He fires the chambered round, holds his posture just long enough to judge the shot, and rolls smoothly to his feet. His rifle goes over one shoulder, and he offers his other hand to shake. “Nice to meet you. Officially.”

“Likewise,” Peggy says. Her grip is pleasantly firm without being a strength test. Bucky’s not at all surprised by the callouses on it, from a pistol grip.

“Great,” Bucky says, leaning against the sandbags next to her. “Now that we’re proper friends, what did you want to talk to me about?”

Peggy hesitates, just for a moment. “I’d very much like that, James. If we could be friends, I mean.”

Bucky has a feeling he knows where this is headed. “Stevie talked to you, didn’t she? About me?”

“She says a lot of things, about you,” Peggy says. “She cares about you a great deal.”

Bucky’s smirk comes out humorless. “Say what you mean, Margaret.”

Peggy nods, accepting the challenge. “She loves you,” she says.

“Has for a long time,” Bucky agrees.

Peggy purses her lips slightly. “Well, I admit I have a hard time understanding. Anybody who takes one look at you can tell how you feel about her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I never was much good at hiding it.”

Peggy sighs. “You’re determined to make this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?”

Bucky grins. “I thought you said Stevie had talked about me.”

“Just tell me,” Peggy says. “If I’m going to … be involved … with Captain Rogers, then I think I have a right to know.” She cocks her head at him, just a bit, curious. “If the two of you are in love, then why is she acting interested in me? Is it just to keep people from being suspicious? Camouflage, to protect her secret?”

Bucky’s grin fades to a normal smile. “Stevie and I have been through too much,” he says. “We’re always going to love each other; we can’t help it.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean she isn’t falling in love with you, too.”

Peggy looks startled.

“Not what you were expecting?” Bucky asks. “Did you think I was going to warn you away from my girl, Agent Carter? Stake some kind of claim?”

“Maybe,” Peggy says slowly, considering him carefully. “And I thought we were being friends, Sergeant.”

“I hope we can be, Margaret,” Bucky says. “Because I really think you might be the dame Stevie and I have been looking for, all these years.”

Peggy raises her eyebrows, like she’s not quite sure she wants to hear what that means.

“We used to talk about it,” Bucky admits. “We could never be together, not like other couples, not if she was going to keep being Steve. Neither of us wanted her to give that up. We used to sit around and talk about how one day we’d find a woman who would understand how we felt about each other, without being threatened by it. One who also wouldn’t run when she found out Stevie’s secret.”

Peggy doesn’t say anything.

“I hear you managed the second one,” Bucky says, pointedly. “How do you feel about the first?”

Peggy blinks. “Are you suggesting that we _share_?” she asks, and he can’t quite tell if the outrage in her voice is feigned or not.

“I’m suggesting that Stevie loves you,” Bucky says. “Or she could, at least, if you give her the chance. And I love her too much to ask her to stop on my account.” He looks her in the eye. “What about you?”

Peggy meets his gaze, unafraid. “You really aren’t jealous at all, are you?”

“Why?” Bucky asks. “How she feels about you has nothing to do with how she feels about me. Why wouldn’t I want that, for her? To have something that makes her happy?”

“And if I force the issue?” Peggy asks, crossing her arms. “If I ask her to choose just one of us, and she chooses me?”

“Then, assuming we manage to keep her secret from the general public, I’m going to be the best man at my good buddy Steve’s wedding,” Bucky says immediately. “If you scrounge up kids somehow, I expect at least one of them to be named James. And for the love of God, I will not be _Uncle Bucky._ That’s non-negotiable.”

Peggy smiles at him. “She was right about you,” she says softly. “You’re a good man.”

Bucky snorts. “She’s got a blind spot for me,” he says. “Don’t hold it against her. She’s normally a good judge of character.”

Peggy stands up and offers her hand again. “Thank you. You’ve given me quite a lot to think about, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Agent Carter,” Bucky says politely, shaking her hand.

She starts to turn away, but hesitates. “In the interest of being friends,” she says, inclining her head, “would you care to have breakfast with me?”

Bucky smiles. “Let me get cleaned up, first?”

“Of course.”

“Deal,” Bucky says. The smile threatens to turn into a smirk. “We inviting Stevie?”

Peggy smiles back at him. “Next time, perhaps,” she says, turning to walk away. “James.”

“Margaret.”

Bucky watches her walk away, thinking about the future for the first time in months. His, and Stevie’s, and maybe—if they’re very lucky—Agent Margaret Carter’s.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Apparently one easy mission is all they’re allowed, because the brass decide to immediately take off the training wheels. Over the next two months, the SSR Special Operations Division Advance Team One—now called the ‘Howling Commandos’ in all the papers and propaganda features, for some reason Bucky can’t figure out—spends more time behind enemy lines than not. Sometimes they even move from target to target, mission to mission, without reporting back to basecamp in between. They get updates and orders over the bulky radio they haul around. Occasionally they get a supply drop with additional ammunition, explosives, batteries, and (if they’re lucky) food.

Bucky understands, intellectually, that they have to press their advantage while it lasts. War is a slow-moving machine, but the enemy does learn and adjust eventually. They need to dismantle as much of HYDRA as they can before they adapt to the seven-man strike team that’s been tearing them apart. Schmidt and Zola aren’t idiots, and they’ll come up with new tactics sooner or later. Better to do as much damage as they can before that happens.

Just because Bucky understands doesn’t mean he has to like it. He’s lost almost ten pounds he didn’t have to spare in the first place trying to survive on cold field rations for weeks at a time. (Keeping Stevie’s higher metabolism fueled in the field is an absolute nightmare, and she’s lost weight, too.) They’ve forgone normal uniforms entirely in favor of whatever clothing they can find that might survive their rough existence. Sometimes they’re fortunate, and get to sleep in barns or cellars provided by local resistance fighters, but more often they’re in the woods, under a hedge, or—once, memorably—in a sewer.

Bucky gets used to being primarily nocturnal, sleeping rough in one- or two-hour stretches, and eating whenever he gets a chance instead of on any kind of sensible schedule. He’s got sweat, blood, dirt, and God knows what else caked into his skin, and he doesn’t want to think what he might smell like. He’s almost gotten used to the taste of mud in his teeth. At least it’s summertime, so they’re not worried about freezing to death in the wild, but the humidity and heat is almost as unbearable.

Every couple of weeks or so, they retreat back to friendly territory, where they can shower, eat real food, and sleep uninterrupted for a couple days. Maybe three, if the brass is feeling particularly generous or the press corps is being overly insistent about getting their new footage and interviews. Then they go back out to do it all over again.

Bucky starts to worry, in the back of his mind, about battle fatigue and whether or not the team is going to burn out. Two months is a long stretch to be so consistently active, without so much as a day of real leave back somewhere like London. It’s not like they’re sitting in a camp on the front waiting for orders; they’re constantly on the move, fighting every day or two, on high alert in enemy territory more often than not. It’s going to take a toll.

Somehow, though, they keep going. That map that Stevie carries, listing the HYDRA bases copied from memory on the rescue mission, starts to get emptier. The reports of HYDRA technology and super-weapons decrease all over the Western theater as the Commandos disrupt supply and research across occupied France, Poland, Belgium, and even Italy. There’s talk of ranging into Denmark or Finland next, maybe Germany itself. (Bucky’s not sure how that would work; supply drops or bombing runs are one thing, but how are they supposed to get evacuated without a friendly airstrip or boat landing?)

For all his worrying, though, maybe Bucky _has_ started to think they’re invincible. Nine successful raids in enemy territory across nine and a half weeks, and the worst injury is a bullet graze on Gabe’s arm, sustained when he pulled Dum Dum behind cover in the ten seconds they were pinned down before Stevie got to them. He hadn’t even realized he’d been hit until they were at the retrieval point, and Agent Carter—who’s usually the one sent in to extract them, unless she’s on a mission of her own—saw the blood.

There have been close calls—Stevie’s shield or Bucky’s rifle taking out the right person at just the right moment, Gabe spotting a landmine at the last second, Jacques bluffing his way out of an ambush with nothing but a detonator and some shouted French, Dum Dum and Jim between them managing to get a truck running half a second before explosives would have buried them in a bunker—but it’s like they’re charmed. Nothing sticks. Every time it looks like things are about to end in disaster, one of them has a brilliant idea or spots an escape route or makes an impossible shot. Their gambles always work.

So Bucky’s just as surprised as everyone else on the day that their luck finally turns.

In hindsight, the mission went sour from day one. When they first get the communication over the radio that new intelligence has surfaced about a HYDRA base not far from their location, they’ve been in occupied France for eleven straight days already. They were in northern Italy for almost a week before that, skipping back and forth across the border to technically-neutral Switzerland, which in reality isn’t much safer. Even by their skewed standards, it’s been a long deployment, and none of them are at the top of their games.

There’s never a question of turning the mission down. They’re the only Allied commandos in the region, and the intelligence is sensitive. It comes straight from members of the French Resistance, and there’s a narrow window before the Germans expose the spies. They’re given less than two days to get in position and execute an attack.

None of them like going in blind, but they don’t have a choice. They’re Captain America’s Howling Commandos; they don’t run from a fight. They take on hopeless missions and lost causes and come out the other side grinning for the cameras. They’re invincible. Or at least they’re supposed to be.

Twelve hours later, Bucky is peering over the back hatch of an old farm truck, sniper rifle precariously balanced as he attempts to cover their retreat into the dark French countryside. He’s finding that it’s much harder to shoot out the tires of pursuing vehicles when in the back of a moving one, and especially so when his vision is blocked by the steady stream of blood pouring into one of his eyes.

Somewhere behind him, Monty is bleeding profusely from his thigh, biting down on a leather belt in an effort to remain silent as Jim does his best to dig out a bullet with a pair of tweezers and a combat knife. (He has the steadiest hands, after Bucky, who’s otherwise occupied.) Gabe and Dum Dum are holding Monty’s arms, one on each side, trying to keep him from thrashing around in the bed of the truck and further complicating Bucky’s shooting.

Meanwhile, Jacques is struggling to wrap his own ankle, which is (hopefully) just sprained and not broken, cursing quietly in French as every bump in the road bounces him around. He’s also haphazardly acting as a go-between for their driver—a local woman named Geneviève who grew up in the area, and has been their Resistance contact for this mission—and Gabe, who is steadfastly translating to English as best as he can while struggling with a thrashing Monty. (Apparently Geneviève, who giggled like a woman half her age and told them to call her Ginette when they met yesterday, has either a strong accent under stress or is using a dialect that Gabe can’t parse by himself.)

Stevie is up front in the passenger seat, but she’s twisted halfway around to yell back toward the rest of the team. “We don’t have enough fuel for a long chase, Buck! Can you get that last truck off our tail or not?”

“It’s a little harder than it looks!” Bucky snaps back. He doesn’t let the emotion affect his shot, though, waiting until he releases a slow breath before pulling the trigger. He can feel that it’s on target before the bullet even leaves the muzzle. Twenty yards behind them, the front left tire of the only remaining pursuing vehicle blows out with a spectacular bang almost as loud as the gunshot itself.

“Happy?” Bucky asks, checking his rifle by feel as he watches the German truck swerve off the road and crash messily into a nearby ditch. From this distance, Bucky isn’t sure whether anyone up front could have survived an impact at that speed, but even if the men in the back of the troop carrier are alive, they have no way to catch up to the rapidly disappearing farm truck.

“Are we clear?” Dum Dum asks.

Bucky gives it one more visual sweep before turning around, his back resting against the tailgate with his rifle spread lovingly across his lap. “We’re clear,” he calls. “Tell Ginette to slow down after a mile or two; we don’t want to attract any more attention than we already have.”

Jacques immediately begins a stream of French aimed at the driver’s seat.

“We need to ditch the truck,” Gabe adds. “They could have called ahead with its description to a checkpoint or something.”

“He’s not going to able to walk, at least not far,” Jim points out, gesturing to Monty with his tweezers, which are now bright red up to two inches from the tips. “We need either an emergency air pickup or somewhere to hide out for a while.”

“Wonderful,” Bucky says. He ejects the spent casing, checks the chamber to be sure it’s empty, and engages the safety for good measure. Then he drops his rifle to the truck bed and lists sideways, one hand pressed to the nasty gash above his eye. “Wake me up when you need me.”

He passes out before he hears any response.

When he wakes up sometime later, it’s to the (far too familiar) sound of Stevie saying, “You are an idiot, Bucky Barnes.” There’s also the sound of a sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?”

Bucky forces his eyes open, wincing at the grit stuck under his eyelids. “I made the shot, didn’t I?” He has to blink a couple of times before the room comes into focus. It’s dark and small, cramped with six grown men and a grown female super soldier huddled inside. A cellar, maybe? It has that earthy, damp smell he’s learned to associate with Middle of Nowhere, France. “And besides, I wasn’t hit. Just grazed.”

“Right,” Stevie says, deadpan. “No big deal. Just a bullet graze. On your _head._ ”

Bucky shrugs. “See, that’s what I like about head wounds. If you’re not already dead, you’ll probably be fine.” He sits up, sucking in a breath as the world decides to spin for a moment. He waits until it’s settled a bit before asking, “How’s Monty?”

“Sleeping, which is what you should be doing,” Monty’s voice announces from the far wall. “I think I lost less blood than you did, and I had to let Jim here mangle my leg.”

“Hey,” Jim mutters from the corner. “Next time I’ll leave the bullet in; how’s that?”

Bucky settles back against … something. A bag? It feels like one of those heavy-duty burlap sacks, filled with something mushy but lumpy. He doesn’t ask.

“Where are we?” he asks instead.

“Ginette’s mother’s house,” Stevie tells him. “We’re in the root cellar, just in case a patrol gets nosy, but apparently the odds of that are pretty slim.”

“Did we get the radio working?” Bucky asks. The world is getting dark again, although at least it’s stopped spinning. “We need to let command know we botched the mission.”

“It’s taken care of,” Stevie says. Her voice has gone tight. “Nothing we can do tonight. Get some sleep.”

Bucky realizes that the world is dimming because his eyes are already halfway closed. “Hey,” he says, fighting to stay conscious. “Are you all right?”

Fingers brush across his forehead, away from the tender gash over one eye. “I’m fine, Buck,” Stevie whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and does.

The next time he wakes up, there’s a throbbing ache at his hairline and a bandage wrapped tight across his forehead, but his lightheadedness and the tendency of the room to spin have thankfully departed. From the pale light coming in through the cracks around the trapdoor, Bucky assumes that it’s morning. Around him, the Commandos are sleeping; Monty is propped up against the wall to stabilize his heavily-bandaged leg, with Jim in the corner next to him as if he’s keeping an eye on his handiwork. Gabe, Jacques, and Dum Dum make a sort of dog-pile in the opposite corner, as if they’d all fallen over asleep in the middle of a conversation.

There’s a blank space next to Bucky, and when he reaches out with his fingertips he finds the earthen floor still warm.

He gets to his feet silently—or, well, as silently as he can; Gabe has been working on teaching the rest of them true stealth, but it’s an uphill battle—and walks over to the wall, carefully stepping around his teammates’ limbs. A quick press of his hand to Monty’s forehead confirms the lack of a fever, so he’s free to let him rest for a while longer without getting too worried.

He makes his way out of the cellar, climbing up into a kitchen. The sunlight streaming in through the half-shuttered windows confirms his suspicions; it’s after dawn, but not by much. It’s been maybe four hours since the mission went pear-shaped and they had to retreat, which means that Stevie’s had—at _most_ —two and a half or three hours of sleep. That’s not enough, even for her enhanced body, which means she’s up for another reason.

He finds her out back, walking circles around an old motorbike that’s propped up next to the porch. It’s a prewar model, bulky, with a weak engine. It must have been somebody’s hobby, but recent years haven’t been kind to it. The handles are starting to rust, the grips peeling away. It looks pitiful, leaning there all alone, abandoned and forgotten. Stevie is letting one hand trail across the throttle, neck, seat, engine, and tires; when she reaches the end, her hand slides back around the other side.

Bucky comes up to her slowly, not wanting to startle her. She acknowledges him with a slight nod, but doesn’t speak until Bucky is close enough to reach out and touch the motorcycle himself.

“I was thinking,” Stevie says quietly. “It’d be good to do something nice for Ginette’s family, after the way she saved our lives. None of us would have gotten out of there, without her.” Her hand stills on the steering column. “Do you think you could get this thing running again?”

Bucky feels his hackles start to rise. “Stevie, I ain’t touched an engine in … damn. Four years? At least. It’s been even longer since I did any real work, not just aimless tinkering.”

“I know,” Stevie says. There’s something sad in her eyes. “I hate that you gave it up. It used to mean a lot to you.”

“No it didn’t,” Bucky says flatly. “I hated it.”

“Bucky,” she says, chiding. “You were running from your father, not the work itself.” She smiles at him. “You were going to teach me, remember? All those summer afternoons hanging around your Pa’s garage, and you never did get around to showing me how these things work.”

Bucky stares at her for a moment, trying to force down all the unpleasant associations he has with mechanical work. “Why the sudden interest?” he asks.

She won’t meet his eyes. “You almost died today, you know,” she whispers. “How far was that bullet from going straight through your skull? You’d have been dead before you hit the ground, and I didn’t even—” She pauses. She’s silent for a long moment before she finally says, “I didn’t even notice it had happened. You could have been dead, and I wouldn’t have known.”

“You were a little busy,” Bucky says dryly. He’d been hit trying to cover Stevie after she threw herself shield-first into an entire platoon of HYDRA goons to give the rest of the team enough room to retreat, once it became clear that they were out of other options. “And I’m fine. Head wounds just bleed a lot. You know that.”

“I keep going back over the mission,” Stevie tells him softly. “Trying to see where it went wrong. Trying to figure out what I should have done differently.”

“Hey,” Bucky says immediately. He moves closer and puts one hand on the back of her neck, thumb rubbing circles into the tight muscle between her shoulders. “This was not your fault. You know that, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stevie says. “I’m the captain; it’s my team. I’m responsible for what happens. Monty’s leg, Jacques’s ankle, your head—all that is on me. Even Ginette’s poor truck.” She swallows again, and Bucky recognizes the sound of her trying not to cry. “And maybe I could forgive myself for all that, since at least everyone came back alive, but we didn’t even _accomplish_ anything. We had to turn tail and run before we even got into the base—”

“We were rushed,” Bucky points out, stopping her before she gets any more wound up. “Half our intel was no good. We never got the kind of prep we’d need for a real assault. We didn’t have the right kind of supplies, or anywhere close to the support we needed.” He raises his eyebrows, willing her to hear him. “How is any of that on you?”

“I should have pulled us out sooner, before anybody got hurt,” Stevie says. “Or never agreed to the mission in the first place, maybe.”

“Stevie …” Bucky doesn’t know what to do. “You can’t beat yourself up about this. It’s a war. Things happen.”

“I know.” She closes her eyes and leans just slightly into Bucky’s shoulder. “I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

Bucky keeps his thumb massaging the back of her neck, not sure if it’s helping but willing to hope. “What can I do?” he whispers.

“I just need to pretend for a minute.” She looks at him, eyes tight and miserable. “You, me, and an engine. Something we might have done before all this, before the war changed everything. I need to forget about Captain Rogers, and just be Stevie for a little while.”

Bucky nods. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s tear it open and see what the damage is, all right? Did you find a toolbox around here somewhere?”

By the time the rest of the Commandos come staggering out in search of food—Jacques hobbling on his bad ankle with Gabe’s help, while Monty needs to be carried between Dum Dum and Jim—Bucky and Stevie are covered in engine grease, lying sprawled out on the summer grass, tools strewn everywhere, laughing almost hysterically in between bouts of cursing at the motorbike.

“Who are you and what have you done with Cap and Sarge?” Jim asks, deadpan.

That just sets them off again, and it’s some time before Stevie gets herself enough under control to make the radio call to base and arrange for an extraction.

Two days later, as the rest of the team watches in awe while Agent Carter verbally flays the SSR Command for setting up their best team to fail with an impossible, poorly-thought-out mission, Bucky sneaks off to have a conversation with Howard Stark. The eccentric inventor is more amenable than Bucky could have hoped, agreeing instantly to surreptitiously spend an hour here and there brushing up Bucky’s rusty skillset. After a few wrench-turning sessions, Bucky feels comfortable enough to tell Stark his idea. Stark immediately agrees to arrange it for him, on the condition that Bucky let him be involved.

Three weeks later, just as Monty is starting to walk without a limp and the brass are considering putting them back on active duty, Bucky calls the team together in Stark’s workshop late one night, when it’s empty. Front and center, polished and gleaming and fine-tuned from the ground up by Bucky’s own hands, is a sleek, powerful motorcycle.

Stevie’s eyes go comically wide. “Bucky?”

“For you,” Bucky confirms, smiling. “I’ve agreed to let Stark outfit her with some weapons tech, but otherwise I can keep her running for you.” He spreads his hands. “Want me to teach you how she works?”

Stevie doesn’t seem to care that anyone is watching; she leaps forward and throws her arms around Bucky, like she’s still a runt that he can catch without falling down. They manage to stay on their feet—barely—and he laughs, right up until she cuts off the sound with a kiss. It starts light and easy, an expression of sheer joy. Then Bucky puts his arms around her, and her hands work their way into his hair, and suddenly it’s something more, something deep and eternal that lodges itself in Bucky’s sternum and will never, ever let him go.

“It’s complicated, my ass,” Dum Dum yells teasingly from behind them, and the rest of the Commandos cheerfully start to catcall and whistle. (They’d locked the doors behind them when they came inside, so nobody’s worried about attracting attention.)

Stevie finally pulls back, grinning widely. “What is this for?” she asks, breathless.

Bucky rests their foreheads together, arms still around her waist. “Did you think I was going to forget?”

Her eyes go soft and fond.

“Happy Birthday, Stevie,” Bucky says, and this time he’s the one who leans forward and kisses her.

“Wait, really?” Monty says, sounding _appalled_. “Captain America’s birthday is the Fourth of July? Are you serious?”

The Commandos burst into laughter around them, but Bucky almost doesn’t even hear. Any day now, Colonel Phillips is going to hand down their next assignment. Maybe the brass will take Agent Carter’s lecture to heart, and actually prepare them properly this time, or maybe they’ll get thrown right back in headfirst, expected to swim or drown. (And the next time disaster strikes, they might not be so lucky.) Either way, they’ll have to keep moving, keep fighting.

As long as he can have this, though—even if only once in a while—Bucky thinks he might just be okay.

 

\--

 

Bucky and Stevie have their only really bad fight in the autumn of 1940, when Bucky is twenty-three.

It’s by no means their first fight, of course. Anybody who runs as hot as Stevie does is going to get into fights left and right, and not all of them are of the beat-up-a-bully variety. When they were kids, they fought about everything: baseball, school, ice cream flavors, books, radio shows, foods. Stevie always had an opinion, and sometimes Bucky would disagree just to get her all riled up. But those weren’t really fights, just friendly arguments that got a little heated.

They fight about who’s turn it is to wash the dishes or do the laundry. They fight about jobs, and whether Stevie is too sick to go to work on a given day. They fight about money and Bucky’s parents and whether or not it’s okay for his Ma to slip them some cash if they get behind on rent. They fight about the cost of real art classes, and how Stevie doesn’t need Bucky to provide for her, even if he wants to. They fight about which bars to go out to on Friday nights, or how much to spend on alcohol and dates.

They bicker, and quarrel, and occasionally even lose their tempers. It never lasts long. One of them will say something ridiculous and make the other laugh, or else they’ll just get tired of snapping at one another. Most of their fights last just a few minutes, and they never stay mad at each other longer than a couple hours. Somewhere along the line, the bickering fades back to their friendly teasing. (Later, they sometimes end fights with heated kisses and disappearing clothes, and Bucky occasionally thinks it’s worth whatever started it just for the way they make up, after.)

But this fight is different. It very nearly tears them apart completely.

The war in Europe is escalating as it enters its second year, and even though that spring America had decided to unequivocally stay out of it, now there’s going to be the first-ever peacetime draft. Bucky’s not sure why, with enlistment already high and still climbing. It’s all anyone is talking about, and Bucky’s sick of everybody asking him if he’s going to join up.

He’s gotten used to the lines outside the recruitment center that’s on his walk home. He never pays too much attention, but he does scan through it for familiar faces, wondering who else is going to disappear for training. He never says anything, or stops to talk. He doesn’t want to have to explain to a recruiter why he can’t do his part for his country. (Who’d be there to take care of Stevie, if he went off to be a soldier?)

That day is a Wednesday, and Bucky is heading home after a long shift at the factory. He’s beat, and all he wants is to get home, fix up something quick for dinner, and collapse on the couch. (Maybe if he smiles at Stevie just right, she’ll knead the tightness out of his back muscles while he reads out loud from one of those pulp magazines she likes.) When he gets to the recruitment office, though, he makes the effort to pick his head up, just enough to flick his eyes through the line. It feels like the least he can do, somehow, to take note of the men who are joining up when he can’t.

Third from the doorway, about to disappear inside, is Stevie.

Bucky stares at her, uncomprehending. He’s stopped dead in the street, ignoring the gentle press of people parting around him. It feels like the world stops turning, and the earth falls away from his feet. His whole body is drenched in ice.

He’s at her side before he registers moving, and he’s got one hand on her upper arm so he can pull her around to face him.

“Did you … did you get _drafted_?” Bucky squeaks.

It doesn’t make any sense. The government drafts from their official records, and as far as they’re concerned Stevie is still a girl, no matter what it says on her employment paperwork or the rent agreement. There’s absolutely no way the US Army has drafted Steven G. Rogers, because he doesn’t exist. There is no reason for her to be reporting for duty.

Stevie tries to jerk her arm out of his grasp, but fails. “No,” she says, defensive.

Bucky sees the paperwork in her other hand and snatches it. He reads it quickly, and the icy fear turns to molten rage instead. “You’re trying to enlist?” he asks, voice carefully controlled, just to be sure. “Steve, what are you thinking?”

A couple of the guys around them chuckle, as if they’d been thinking the same thing, looking at Stevie’s scrawny arms and sunken chest.

Stevie squares her shoulders and settles her jaw, and Bucky should have known that meant a fight. “Go home, Buck.”

“You’re coming with me,” Bucky says, and begins to drag her out of line by the arm he’s still holding.

“Bucky!” Stevie yells, trying to hold her ground. “Let go!”

“You are not enlisting, Steve,” Bucky says firmly.

“Yes I am,” Stevie snaps. “There’s a war on, and people are dying. I have no right to sit by and let that happen.”

The line around them shifts as the next person goes inside. One of the guys behind Stevie crosses his arms and gestures with his large, pointed chin. “You going in or not, shrimp?”

“Yes,” Stevie says.

“ _No_ ,” Bucky says.

“Well make up your damn minds,” the guy says. “I don’t have all day.”

“Bucky. _Let. Me. Go_ ,” Stevie says, and her voice is as low and deadly serious as Bucky has ever heard it.

“Come on,” Bucky says, pulling at her arm again. “I swear, you don’t have the sense God gave a goldfish. We’re leaving.”

“No, I’m not.”

“For Christ’s sake,” another man calls out from the line. “Have your argument elsewhere.”

Bucky glares at the guy until he backs off. Then he looks back at Stevie, mouth a thin, hard line. “I will drag you home if I have to.”

Stevie stretches up to all five-foot-two of her inches. “I’d like to see you try.”

There’s another round of laughter from the men around them.

Bucky leans forward and hisses in her ear, “Stevie, I will throw you over my shoulder and _carry_ you home if you don’t leave with me, right now.”

Stevie studies his face for a moment, probably trying to decide if he’s furious enough to do it.

She waits too long. Bucky shifts his grip on her arm and leans over, ready to sweep out her feet and put her in a fireman’s carry.

Stevie struggles like a wild kitten, arms and legs flailing everywhere but too weak to do any real damage. “Okay!” she screams. “Bucky! Put me down!”

Bucky dumps her back to the sidewalk. Truth be told, he hadn’t gotten her anywhere close to his shoulder anyway; he’s not sure he could have, with her wriggling around like that.

Stevie’s face is the brightest red he’s ever seen, and he knows it’s a mixture of awful embarrassment—the entire line and some of the guys inside the doorway are all laughing uproariously, as if this is the best entertainment they’ve had all week—and pure, unfettered anger. She’s actually shaking with fury, the way she’d been at eight years old in that alley.

“Fine,” she says. Her words come out clipped, as if they have to dart out around her grinding teeth and clenched jaw. “Let’s go home.”

“Glory be,” a nearby man says sarcastically. “It’s a miracle!”

Around them, the line breaks out into cheers as Stevie stalks off down the street.

Bucky doesn’t waste the energy to glare at anybody; Stevie’s moving, and that’s good enough for him.

Even with her shorter legs and bad lungs, she stays ahead of him all the way back to their apartment. She’s only breathing slightly hard when she gets to the door, fumbling for her key with a shaking hand.

“Here, let me—” Bucky starts to say.

Stevie fixes him with a look he’s never seen before. It stops him cold, hand still outstretched with his key between two fingers.

Bucky, unlike Stevie, knows when to back down from a fight he’s not going to win. He drops his key back in his pocket and waits.

The moment they get through the door, Stevie turns around, slams it shut, flicks the lock, and gives him a shove that makes him stumble back into the wall.

“What the hell, Bucky?” Stevie demands.

Bucky stays leaning against the wall, but his eyes are hot. “I think that’s my line,” he spits. “Enlisting? Are you crazy?”

“Why is it crazy?” she asks. “Half the neighborhood boys have joined up already.”

Bucky just looks at her. “You’re not a boy, Stevie. Not really.”

Something cold slams into place behind her blue eyes. “You think that makes a difference?” she asks him. “You think that means I can do any less for my country?”

Bucky flounders. He knows these are dangerous waters. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says, trying to deflect. “If they catch you, you’ll go to jail!”

Stevie shakes her head. “Dressing up like a fella isn’t against the law, last I checked.”

“Maybe not,” Bucky says. “But lying on your enlistment form is.”

Stevie bites her bottom lip. For the first time in all the years he’s known her, Bucky doesn’t find it cute. “They wouldn’t catch me. Nobody ever has, and I’ve had five years of practice being Steve.”

“The Army is different,” Bucky insists. “Sleeping and changing in shared barracks, communal showers, people around you all the time … How could you hide in the middle of that?”

“I’d find a way,” Stevie says, just as stubborn as ever. “I always do.”

Bucky’s hand is shaking where he still holds tight to the paperwork she’d filled out. “What would you do if they actually took you?” he asks. His voice comes out hushed, and for the first time he realizes that the emotion churning in his stomach isn’t just anger. It’s fear.

Stevie freezes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Even if you _were_ a boy, you couldn’t do this,” Bucky says. “Christ, Stevie, you run a hundred yards and you can’t hardly breathe. How the hell would you even get through basic training?”

She looks like he’s slapped her. “Not you,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“You’re the only one who never told me I couldn’t do something just because I was too short, or too weak, or too sickly, or too _female_.” Stevie is glaring at him, just as much righteous anger in her eyes as when she stands up to a bully. “When everybody else was busy laughing at me, you’re the one who taught me how to throw a punch, remember?”

“Obviously I shouldn’t have encouraged you,” Bucky says.

“You think it would have stopped me?” Stevie demands. “I was getting into fights long before I met you, you know. All you did was help me win them, instead of just getting beat or ignored.”

Bucky holds up the enlistment paperwork and shakes it at her, like a newspaper in front of a misbehaving puppy. “And this is just more of the same, is it?”

“This is the right thing to do. Or don’t you care about that anymore?”

For a moment, Bucky is stunned. Does she really think that him teaching her to fight or stepping in to help her with a bully is _ever_ about it being the right thing to do? It isn’t. It’s always been about her.

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky says. He leans toward her, trying to make her hear him. “You would die. Do you understand? You wouldn’t last three minutes in a real fight without me, let alone a war zone.”

She crosses her arms, and her mouth is a thin, pale line. “I don’t need your protection, Bucky Barnes.”

“The hell you don’t,” Bucky snaps back. “You’ve needed my protection since the day we met, and don’t you dare pretend otherwise. This isn’t about your pride.”

“I am _not_ fragile,” Stevie says, punctuating her point by jabbing him in the chest with one finger, hard. “And you know what? I don’t need your approval, either.”

With that, she spins around and marches for the door.

“So help me God, Stephanie Grace Rogers,” Bucky says. He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, because it’s hoarse with anger. (He sounds like his father.) “If you go back to that recruitment office, I will tell them you’re a girl myself.”

She pauses in the open doorway, looking at him over one shoulder. “You wouldn’t _dare_ ,” she hisses.

“Try me,” Bucky says. “I’d rather watch you be thrown in jail than let you die in a training camp infirmary, or God forbid, some trench in Europe.”

Stevie’s so angry now that the shaking has stopped, and her voice has gone quiet and still. She just looks at him for a long moment, tears suspended in the corners of her eyes. “I really thought …” Her voice catches. “I thought you, of all people, would believe in me.”

Something about those words hits Bucky hard, and he’s already trying to call her back. “Stevie, wait; you know I—”

It’s too late. She’s gone, and Bucky’s left alone with just the slamming of a door.

 

\--

 

After the botched mission in June, things start to change. Maybe it was Agent Carter’s rapidly-becoming-legendary scolding of the upper brass. Maybe it was Stevie going to bat for her men, demanding better supplies and more downtime between missions. Maybe it was somebody in command doing the math and figuring out that getting Captain America killed by running the Howling Commandos ragged wouldn’t be good for troop morale. Maybe it was a combination of all the above.

The exact results are hard to quantify. They’re still an advance team, so it’s not like their lives are suddenly easy. They still get some of the most dangerous assignments in the entire European theater, starting with a campaign to soften Italian defenses before the Allied invasion of Sicily the same week they go back on active duty after Stevie’s birthday. By the time the island officially surrenders six weeks later, they’ve already been dropped behind the lines on the mainland, getting ready for the real push that starts in September.

The difference is that this time, Stevie is involved from day one instead of being told where to go and what to do. She gets a say in what missions they take, and is given enough leeway to set her own timetable for both drop and extraction, to requisition whatever supplies she deems necessary from the quartermaster, and to act autonomously in the field when new intelligence crops up.

At first she runs every decision and mission plan past Bucky and Peggy, letting the two of them share their perspective and experience. She picks the strategy up quickly, though, and their late-night planning sessions become more about brainstorming and fine-tuning her own ideas. Then it just develops into a habit, until Bucky learns to associate pouring over a map, scanning coded printouts, and working out logistics with the warm smell of British tea and gunpowder that means _Peggy_. It becomes the best part of his new routine, those hours the three of them spend together.

The increased downtime between missions doesn’t lead to real leave, however, much to everyone’s disappointment. Instead, it just gives the media and the military press office a more reliable chance of finding them when they want a new article, photo, or reel of film. Sometimes they even take a journalist or a cameraman with them on simple, “low-threat” missions, which mostly means bivouacking near the front keeping an eye out for German or Italian advance scouts or raiders. Once they even stage a scene, stalking through the forest outside basecamp as if they were in enemy territory, complete with Stevie slinging her shield at an invisible enemy. (When they see the film later back in London, Bucky snickers; the shot cuts away before the audience can tell that there was nobody there.)

Bucky hates everything about it. Not just the fakery required to smile for the photos or the absurdity of trying to come up with good quotes for the papers when ninety percent of their missions are highly classified, but the bad taste it leaves in his mouth when he gets identified in a mess hall or at a bar. If he doesn’t recognize himself in his own shaving mirror anymore, then who is the stranger whose face is plastered across cinema screens and propaganda posters, and even drawn in _comic books_? (The first time someone handed him one of those to have him sign, he very nearly tore it in half then and there.) It feels like everything about his life outside of the missions themselves is a lie, and he wonders if this is how Stevie feels all the time, answering to a man’s name.

In October, with the Allied lines now relatively secure in Southern Italy, the SSR switches its primary focus back to hunting down HYDRA. Their brief sojourn fighting ‘normal’ Nazis has given Schmidt the time and relative peace he needed to distance himself from the Third Reich; the new intelligence coming out of Germany indicates the Nazi science division may have gone rogue altogether.

In some ways, this makes the Howling Commandos’ job easier, because Schmidt can no longer rely on infinite reinforcements or up-to-date information. In other ways, it makes their job harder, because now Schmidt is off his tenuous leash. The first HYDRA base they hit that month has basement holding cells packed full of executed prisoners, the civilians and POW’s mixed indiscriminately with Nazi officers who must have taken issue with HYDRA’s new direction.

(Jim, Stevie, and Dum Dum all throw up as they leave that place behind, and nobody says a word to any of them. Nobody says anything when Jacques puts down a few more explosives than absolutely necessary on the way out, either.)

Their tactics start to change. Bucky’s not sure if it’s entirely predicated on Schmidt and Zola creating ever-more-insane weapons, or if it’s just how Stevie’s brain works when she’s allowed free reign during planning, but their post-mission reports go from being called ‘interesting’ to ‘improbable’ to ‘outlandish.’ Sometimes Bucky catches himself wondering which set of missions are crazier; the made-up ones in the films and comics, or the ones he remembers being real. (The first time he sees Stevie take on a twenty-foot-tall tank with nothing but her shield and a bundle of explosives Jacques threw her mid-leap, Bucky starts to wonder if maybe he’s got the two mixed up somehow.)

In mid-October, the weather starts to turn. Now instead of seeking out shade and breezes they’re huddling together at night and wishing fondly for extra blankets. The thick blue overcoat that Bucky used to curse even as it protected him from brambles and rough terrain rapidly becomes his favorite possession, after his rifle. He gets used to having to shake off frost crystals from the dew that settles in his hair or on his bedroll overnight.

Then the first real snowfall hits, and Bucky promises himself that he’ll never complain about an Italian summer ever again. The only good news is that his reflexive worrying over Stevie’s health is entirely unfounded; for the first time in seventeen years, Bucky doesn’t have to fret and scrounge up expensive medicines and keep Stevie away from open windows. Even when a quick, savage flu sweeps through the rest of the team in November, the serum protects her. (Bucky doesn’t catch it either, probably because he’s got an ironclad immune system after all those years of playing nursemaid for Stevie.)

Dum Dum catches a piece of shrapnel in his shoulder during the initial push into mainland Italy, and Gabe ends up with a jagged scar on his knee from a knife-fight with a HYDRA goon near Thanksgiving, but all told the team makes it through to the end of the year relatively unscathed. Their closest call is in mid-December, when they get holed up in an honest-to-God castle somewhere in Denmark after blowing up a supply depot, trying to survive in the midst of a sudden snowfall with half a battalion scouring the countryside for them. Their airlift back to friendly territory can’t get through the storm, and they have to play hide-and-seek with five hundred enemy soldiers for nearly two weeks on dwindling supplies and ammunition. It’s the closest they’ve come to having to surrender, and by far the longest they’ve been stuck behind enemy lines consecutively since those first nine weeks at the beginning of the summer.

When they limp back into camp afterward, Colonel Phillips takes one look at them and assigns them all two weeks of leave before Stevie even opens her mouth to ask. The entire SSR Special Operations Division packs up and heads to London for Christmas.

Monty is going to try to catch a train out to his family estate, and offers them all a chance to come along and witness a ‘real English holiday.’ After some discussion, Jim and Jacques take him up on it, while Dum Dum and Gabe opt to stay in London instead and spend the entire two weeks barhopping across the city. Bucky considers joining them, but he’s never willingly abandoned Stevie at Christmas. (Last year, when he was already in Europe with the 107th and she was busy dancing on some USO stage in the Midwest, wasn’t exactly a voluntary separation.)

Stevie dismisses the rest of the team at the edge of the base, reminding them to stay out of trouble and report back in twelve days so that they can catch their ride. Bucky keeps her company as they watch the others split up and head out. He’s just about to ask what _their_ plans are for the next two weeks when a messenger interrupts him to say that Phillips wants them in his office.

“We haven’t had time to get in any trouble yet,” Stevie says.

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe it’s preemptive.”

The Colonel’s office is small, cramped, and cluttered in a way that suggests he’s in the middle of doing at least sixteen things that are more important than dealing with Captain America. He’s got a lit but ignored cigar in a crystal ashtray, half-buried under a stack of memos (which makes Bucky nervous, because that seems like a fire hazard). In the main room, phones are ringing continuously, and there’s the steady clacking of a dozen WAC’s typing orders, reports, and condolence letters.

There’s only one chair, excepting the one Phillips is occupying behind the desk, so after the Colonel waves off their salutes Bucky stands at Stevie’s elbow in parade-rest.

“What can we do for you, sir?” Stevie asks.

“You know,” Phillips says, shuffling documents and refusing to look up long enough to make eye contact. “I had my doubts about you, Rogers. I thought it was some kind of tasteless prank when you showed up at my training camp, and that was _before_ I found out about the little secret Dr. Erskine was helping you keep.”

Bucky feels his jaw clenching.

“But,” Phillips says, enthusiastically filing half an inch of paper into a folder, “I was wrong. If I could go back, I’d kick myself for letting you waste six months on that senator’s circus show.”

Stevie shifts in her chair. “Thank you, sir,” she says, a little awkwardly.

“Nobody can say you haven’t been effective in the field,” Phillips says. “Hell, you’ve been a God-send, as far as I’m concerned. How you manage to dismantle HYDRA bases while wearing that nonsense costume I’ll never know, but it sure does wonders for the rest of our boys to see it.” He makes a face. “Captain America. Who would have thought?”

Stevie glances briefly at Bucky, who makes a helpless sort of motion. He doesn’t know where this is going, either.

“I have a good team backing me up, sir,” Stevie finally says.

“Well, that’s what we’re about to find out,” Phillips says.

Stevie perks up. “You’ve got our next assignment?”

Phillips finally sits back in his chair and looks up at them. “The tides are starting to turn, Captain,” he says. “Northern Africa is secure, the Russians are holding their own on the Eastern Front, and we’ve made real progress in Italy. After four years of getting our asses kicked, we’re finally in a real position to fight back.”

Stevie exchanges another look with Bucky. He sees the speculation in her eyes, and nods.

“Are we talking about an Allied effort to liberate France?” Stevie asks bluntly.

Phillips scowls. “This is top-secret, Rogers. Even I don’t have the full story.” He tilts his head. “But yes. The wheels are already in motion; it’s happening within the year.” He leans forward and clasps his hands on his desktop. “Everything is being handled with extreme care. There’s going to be a misinformation campaign like nothing we’ve ever attempted before.”

Stevie sits up straighter. “Where do we come in?” she asks.

“You,” Phillips says, “are a distraction. You’re flashy, you’re loud, and somehow all your missions seem to end with an explosion or something on fire.”

Bucky bites back a laugh.

“Sir?” Stevie asks.

“We can’t really hide an operation of this size,” Phillips explains. “What we _can_ do is try to make damn sure the Germans are watching something else.”

“You want us to draw attention,” Stevie says.

“I want you out on the front lines, being seen to cause trouble. I want the Germans so worried about what Captain America is doing that they don’t pay any attention to our real plans.” Phillips raises his eyebrows. “Think you can manage that, Rogers?”

Stevie looks at Bucky one more time. He shrugs.

“We’ll come up with something, sir,” Stevie promises.

“Good. I want your preliminary mission plan on my desk when you report back in two weeks.” He makes a shooing motion. “Now go have Christmas. Dismissed.”

Bucky waits until they’re back on the street before nudging Stevie with one shoulder and saying, “Hey, knock it off.” He can already see the gears turning in her head as the strategist in her starts to work on the problem she’s been given. “We can plan out our missions later. What are we doing for Christmas?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” a crisp voice asks.

Bucky glances up to see Peggy leaning against the door of a car parked by the curb, immaculate—as always—in her uniform, hair pinned back.

Stevie’s face lights up as soon as she sees her, and she walks over to give Peggy a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re early,” she says quietly.

“No, you’re late,” Peggy corrects. She turns to Bucky. “My apologies, James. The Captain was _supposed_ to inform you that I keep a flat here in the city. You boys are spending the holiday with me.”

Bucky doesn’t even have time to offer a polite, token protest before Stevie is bundling him into the backseat of the car.

Peggy’s London flat is small but cozy, warm and smelling of gun oil and home-cooked meals. (It smells like _burnt_ home-cooked meals for the next two days, because Peggy didn’t believe Bucky when he told her in no uncertain terms to never allow Stevie near the oven. Even Bucky couldn’t rescue that fiasco, and they’d nearly had to throw out the pan.)

Bucky stays in the spare bedroom down the hall from Peggy and Stevie, and he falls instantly in love with the mattress. It’s softer than anything he’s slept on, not just since the war started, but even back in Brooklyn. The blankets are thick and fluffy without being heavy. The pillows smell fresh and clean. He spends the whole first day in bed, only getting up with a grumble when Stevie bodily drags him out to the living room.

There’s thick carpets on nearly all the flooring, a fireplace to keep them warm, and—best of all—a radio playing holiday tunes day and night, with not a single war report to be heard. It takes all of one afternoon for Bucky to teach Peggy a jive routine, and in return she teaches him an English waltz. After that, every time Stevie leaves them alone in a room together, she comes back to find them dancing.

Stevie sketches them that way, once, capturing them mid-twirl. On the page, Peggy’s hair is streaming out behind her, and Bucky is grinning. Stevie gives it to Bucky as his Christmas present, and he keeps it folded in his breast pocket for the rest of the war. He never shows it to anyone else, but sometimes when he’s alone he’ll take it out and remember a time when he was happy, when his whole world could be distilled down to a dance with a remarkable woman in his arms.

For a while, they try to avoid even mentioning the war, but it’s too tied up in who they are, by now. Stevie makes it four whole days before Bucky comes back in from a smoke on the front step to catch her at the kitchen table, thoughtfully marking up a map and taking notes on a little pad. He doesn’t say anything, just sighs and stamps the snow off his boots, then goes in search of Peggy. Fifteen minutes later the three of them are deep in a discussion about the relative tactical value of mountains and rivers in Southern Italy, and what exactly they can do to draw as much attention as possible away from the Western front.

All told, it ends up being one of Bucky’s best Christmases ever, even if they do spend more time than he’d like putting together the mission plan for Phillips. There’s just something maddeningly perfect about it, this balance between the three of them, and Bucky wakes up one day in that London flat realizing that he could be happy, like this. Not just happy for Stevie, the way he’d always imagined it when he thought about her finding the right woman, but happy in his own right. Peggy’s become his friend just as much as she’s Stevie’s gal. He can’t imagine a life without her, anymore. (If he’s maybe falling a little bit in love with her, too, he can hardly be blamed. Peggy’s an easy woman to love.)

Bucky saves the most important bit for Christmas Day, just before they call it a night and head to bed. He gives Peggy her present first, and she unwraps the brown paper with _Margaret_ written across it to find a package of her evening tea, along with a small tube of hard-to-find lipstick in her favorite shade. She immediately applies it, then leaves a brilliant red kiss mark on his cheek. (Her present to him had been a new cleaning kit for his rifle, with some of the expensive gun oil that he’d once admired her using on her field pistol.)

Bucky pulls out a second package with Stevie’s name scrawled across the top. “So you’ll always find your way home,” Bucky says, tossing it to her.

She opens it, revealing a small compass. When she flicks it open to check the needle, she pauses. Carefully tucked in the lid, where she can always see it, is a photograph of Peggy that Bucky bummed off one of the media hounds that had been tailing them.

Stevie hands the compass off to Peggy, and then walks over to sit across Bucky’s legs.

“Merry Christmas, Buck,” she whispers. For the first time since her birthday in July, she gives him a real kiss, the kind that makes him melt back into the couch and just cradle her in his arms, for as long as she’ll let him.

From the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Peggy watching them. She glances down at the compass with her image tucked inside, and chooses not to say anything. He’s not sure, but he thinks he might even see her smile.

The rest of their leave flies by too quickly, and before Bucky knows it, it’s time to pack up his gear and head back to base. The rest of the Howling Commandos are reporting tomorrow, but Captain America has to show up a day early to get a jumpstart on planning their next set of missions. As her NCO and team sergeant, Bucky will be busy trying to corral the men and get their supplies and munitions worked out, so that when Stevie says “jump” they’re all ready to move.

They help Peggy put the flat back in order, stripping the bedding and covering the furniture with sheets, before they leave. (She’s due to report back to SSR Command, too, and with the war escalating she probably won’t be back until it’s over.) Bucky’s going to miss the place, more than he would have thought possible just a few days ago. He’s felt more at home here than he has since Brooklyn.

Bucky isn’t surprised when Peggy stops them at the door in order to give Stevie a thorough kiss goodbye. He is, however, when she immediately turns to him and does the same, albeit a little more chastely. (Maybe he’s not the only one realizing how perfectly the three of them fit together.)

“Be careful, James,” Peggy whispers in his ear. “And keep her safe.”

“Always,” Bucky promises, and follows Stevie back to the war.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

If Bucky had thought the Howling Commandos’ missions were borderline insane before, he has a whole new bar to set come the first half of 1944.

Stevie takes the mission plan they’d worked out over the holiday straight to the Colonel the minute they report back, and they get their approval to head for Italy. It’s relatively familiar territory, because they spent two months out here leading up to the Allied invasion back in September. This time, though, they aren’t there to sneak around and soften up German defenses; Phillips wants them on the front lines, attracting attention and being seen, so that’s where they go.

Unfortunately, their reception is less than warm. Last time, they showed up with the entire SSR Special Operations Division, and had only limited coordination with the regular troops. The most they ever cooperated with the standard Allied units was to let them know which areas were now weakened, or to request that nobody on their side shoot at them as they crossed back over the front lines. For the most part, the SSR was an independent outfit, answerable to no one outside of their own hierarchy, and that had apparently ruffled some feathers among the normal brass. When they return to Italy in January of 1944, they find that certain officers among Allied Command have five-month-old grudges, honed through the long winter of bloody fighting inching toward Rome.

It manifests in subtle ways, as far as these things go; the Howling Commandos are by far the most famous soldiers in the entire European theater—maybe the entire _war_ —and the constant presence of cameras and reporters flocking around them tempers some of the worst reactions. For instance, no one says a word about their non-regulation clothing, which (by now) has been immortalized in enough films and comics that they might as well be uniforms. No one tries to give Captain America any direct orders to go back to England, either, because she’s still property of the SSR, no matter where she’s stationed for the moment.

Still, it becomes rapidly clear that while the Howling Commandos might be heroes to the rank and file, they’re something of a joke to the upper brass. Not a one of them makes the slightest attempt to take the team seriously as soldiers. Within five minutes of reporting to Allied Command, they get shunted off to the US Fifth Army group with orders to “find a way to make yourselves useful without getting in the way, if that’s possible.”

Bucky’s honestly not that surprised. Before he’d seen Captain America in action for himself, he’d have felt nothing but pity and disgust toward some costumed imposter prancing around and taking credit for the things real soldiers were doing. It had taken a firsthand demonstration of her effectiveness for him to take Captain America seriously, to the point that he’d have agreed, at the time, with the reception Stevie had gotten on that stage from the 107th survivors (although he’d never say so where she could hear him). The rescue had changed all that, of course, and her war record spoke for itself since.

Unfortunately, several of the ranking officers in the Italian campaign seem to be under the impression that any parts of Captain America’s official record that haven’t been entirely fabricated by the military press office have to be exaggerated, at the very least. In addition, most of them are old guard, the kind of soldiers that look down their noses at covert operations as dishonest, bad form, or “unmanly.” (Bucky doesn’t miss the irony in that particular moniker.) It’s not a question of usefulness or tactical value; it’s just not actual battle experience, to them. While Captain America has been playing spy games for the SSR, they’ve been fighting the real war.

Besides, the one thing everyone knows about Captain Steve Rogers is that his officer’s commission is just a publicity gimmick that somehow stuck. ‘Captain’ America isn’t a real officer, or even a real soldier. The officers who don’t just ignore her entirely tend to baby her, even without being aware of her gender. Bucky overhears more than one disparaging remark about being pulled from _actual_ combat duty to ‘babysit the press darling.’ (The one thing everyone agrees on, from the top brass all the way down, is that letting Captain America get killed doing something stupid is vehemently _not_ an option, real soldier or otherwise.)

Bucky might at least somewhat empathize with people who can’t take Captain America seriously in that costume, but that doesn’t mean the dismissal doesn’t piss him off. He and Stevie (and Peggy, of course) spent half their holiday leave working out that mission plan, and now nobody wants to hear it, let alone approve it. Most of the brass adamantly refuse to let them see combat at all; the rest will allow it only under clearly defined “acceptable risk” scenarios. Of course, that defeats the entire purpose of coming to Italy; Captain America can’t distract the Germans if nobody realizes she’s here.

Stevie, of course, gets her way in the end, in suitably dramatic fashion.

First she bullies an American lieutenant into letting the Commandos accompany his squad on the first real push toward the German Winter Line. (By the time the higher-ups realize they’re there, it’s too late to cancel the attack or waste troops escorting them back.) Stevie is subsequently ordered to observe from the relatively safe rear, which lasts right up until the first shots are fired. Then she takes out a Panzer IV tank that had stalled the advance at a river crossing, with nothing but her shield, in full view of half a battalion of US troops. (The Commandos, used to her antics, are right on her heels in the thick of the fighting, trying to cover her.)

The attack ends up being an abysmal failure, and they’re forced to retreat at dawn under heavy fire. Stevie is practically the last person back across the river, using her shield to cover the stragglers. (She saves at least two dozen lives in the last hour of fighting alone.) The casualty numbers are still horrendous, but several of the surviving officers grudgingly report that they would have been even higher without Captain America’s rearguard tactics, or the superb sharpshooting of the Commandos watching her back.

Just a few days later, when the second attempt is made to breach the German line—this time by going through the mountains to take advantage of the high ground—Stevie lobbies hard for them to be included, even though the rest of the men involved in the first battle are still on stand-down. The brass aren’t yet convinced Captain America is everything the papers claim, but they’re a little more willing to give her an opportunity to prove herself. Stevie gets conditional approval to take her commandos along for the attack, provided that no reporters or film crews go with them.

That’s how Bucky finds himself in the middle of the bloodiest extended battle he’s ever fought. The Germans are entrenched all through the river valley and the surrounding hills, and gaining ground is a constant slog through freezing mud and machine-gun fire. The Allied artillery is almost impossible to move through the terrain, so they’re often forced to advance with nothing but unsupported infantry, going up against tanks and fortified positions. It’s a nightmare, the likes of which Bucky hasn’t seen since he was last on the front with the 107th.

As a consequence, the casualty rates are astronomical, and it’s not long before the field commanders are desperate for anybody with leadership experience. One week into the assault, as they prepare to strike for a foothold in the mountains, Stevie gets called to the rear and comes back with half a company of orphaned men who are suddenly under her command.

They have a few of their own surviving sergeants and corporals, but of course Bucky is the senior NCO, both by reputation and actual combat experience. He realizes immediately that he’s basically forgotten how to be a ‘real’ sergeant, used to the much more informal structure of the Commandos. It takes him a day or two to adjust his thinking, and he has to split up the new men into manageable squads and attach each one to a Howling Commando, just to keep track of them all. They go from a team of six men under Stevie’s loose leadership, to each of them in command of ten to twelve men with Stevie coordinating at the top, practically overnight.

It’s disorienting for all six of them, to say the least, trying to go back to a more traditional kind of warfare. (It’s strange, full stop, for Stevie, who’s experiencing it for the first time.) After the first week, Bucky’s not sure he’s cut out for ‘normal’ soldiering like this, anymore. The time it takes to coordinate thousands of men into one coherent attack frustrates him, especially because he no longer has any sort of input into their tactics or objectives. He’s used to his small team being responsive in the moment, and it’s tough to go back to dealing with military bureaucracy, even the expedited version that exists on an active battlefield.

He’d also nearly forgotten what it was like to fight for hours or even days to gain a few thousand feet or take a single hilltop, often without being told the larger reason why. It’s a sickening reminder of what war can really be. The Howling Commandos have been active since their rescue in April of ’43 without losing a man, despite some close calls; in the first week of February in ’44, Bucky loses over half his squad trying to dislodge the German defenders from a nearby ridge. Then, just five days later, it turns out to have been for nothing; the field commanders have had enough, and they withdraw.

The final count for the second assault is nearly three weeks of constant fighting, with only intangible gains (if any). The consensus seems to be that they’re forcing the Germans to divert resources from France and possibly even the Eastern Front, but that isn’t enough. Only three out of every ten men who went into the mountains makes it back down alive. Stevie’s personal unit numbers are a bit higher, attributed almost entirely to the presence of Captain America drawing fire, but also to Gabe’s keen eye; a significant portion of American casualties had been due to mines and traps placed by the Germans as deterrents.

They’re exhausted, blood-soaked, and cynical by the time they crawl back to basecamp in mid-February. To make things worse, they aren’t allowed to show it. One of the stipulations of SSR Command approving the Colonel’s plan for Stevie to be heavily involved in the Italian offensive had been the constant presence of a film crew for publicity, both to boost Allied morale and to convince the Germans that Captain America was a serious threat to the Third Reich, not just long-since-gone-rogue HYDRA.

That means Stevie has to be flashy and noticeable in the field, even when that may not be the most tactically sound approach. She uses her shield when a gun would be more effective, wears her brightly-colored costume even when it makes her a target, and plants herself right in the middle of the heaviest fighting every time. It also means she can never lose her temper, sulk, or grieve properly for the men she’s lost when they get back, because someone is always watching.

Bucky, mindful of the eyes and cameras around every corner, keeps a professional distance between them at all times, even though it kills him to watch her suffering in silence. He’s never wished for anything quite as badly as he wishes Peggy would miraculously show up; by now the entire Western world has seen a picture of Captain America with his ‘sweetheart compass.’ If Peggy were here, she could comfort Stevie in the way that Bucky can’t, with so many people looking. (The Commandos, loyal as ever, do their best to run interference when they can, but it just isn’t worth the risk.)

It might be unpatriotic of him, but Bucky is actually relieved when yet another costly offensive fails in late February (during which Jim takes a bullet to the shoulder and has to be hurriedly evacuated back to basecamp). If nothing else, it proves to anybody with half a brain that the Italian campaign is going to be the sort of long, slow grind that isn’t good for Stevie’s primary objective of distracting the Germans.

By the first of March, Colonel Phillips makes the call to pull the Howling Commandos out of Italy altogether.

“It was a good idea, Rogers,” Phillips says at their debrief back in England, after a few days of light duty to lick their wounds. “We got some good PR footage out of it, if nothing else. But you can’t turn an entire battle by yourself, and you have to be seen _winning_. Decisively. Not being stalled at every turn by the German defenses.”

Stevie, who’s still on edge after nearly two months of bloody fighting, crosses her arms and glares at Phillips. The Stevie of just six weeks ago might not have done that, but staring down a senior officer isn’t as scary after what they’ve just been through. “If you want me on the front lines, sir, Italy is the only game in town. Unless you want to loan me out to the Russians.”

Phillips doesn’t even dignify that with a comment.

“With respect, sir, I think we’re going about this the wrong way,” Bucky says.

Phillips glances at him, face impassive. (He’s obviously surprised, because Bucky doesn’t usually speak in front of him, saving his tactical input for when he and Stevie are alone with Peggy.) “You have a plan to go with that remark, Sergeant?” the Colonel demands.

“We’re commandos, sir,” Bucky reminds him. “Turn us loose and let us do what we’re good at.”

Phillips is unimpressed. “You’re not going to scare the Germans by blowing up some farmland. You’ve been doing that for a year. We need something that’ll put you on their radar, permanently.”

Stevie looks suddenly thoughtful. She turns to Bucky, eyebrows raised. He can see the gears turning in her head as she tries to figure out his thought process. “That might depend on which farmland,” she says slowly.

Bucky nods to let her know she’s on the right track. “Antwerp?” he offers. “The port makes a convincing target.”

“Maybe,” Stevie says. “I was thinking farther south. Along the Seine, halfway to Paris if we move fast enough. This is supposed to be about an emotional response, not tactical value, right?”

“Captain?” Phillips prompts. “Care to share with those of us who aren’t psychically linked to Sergeant Barnes?”

“The whole point is to be a diversion, right?” Stevie asks. She shrugs. “So let’s stage a fake assault in advance of the real one.”

Phillips pauses for a moment, letting that sink in. “You want me to authorize you to invade France with just six men?”

“I won’t turn down additional resources,” Stevie says, nonchalant. “I understand that might be difficult when you need every man for the real invasion, though.”

Phillips stares at her in stunned silence.

“It would mostly be just for show,” Stevie adds quickly. “We wouldn’t try to hold any territory. Just make enough of a fuss to get their attention, force a response. Draw manpower away from the real landing zone.”

The Colonel leans back in his chair. “You’re crazy, Rogers.”

Stevie shrugs again. “I thought that’s what you liked about me, sir. Loud and flashy and lots of explosions, remember?”

Phillips is silent for another long moment. “You’d need a hundred men, at least, to make it even marginally convincing. It would still only work for a day or two, even with your penchant for theatrics, before the Germans realized it was fake.”

“Volunteers only,” Bucky interrupts quietly. “It’ll take a special kind of stupid, for something like this.”

“They’d have to be light infantry, too, or commandos themselves,” Stevie adds. “We’ll be moving too fast for anything heavier.” She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, already deep in the planning stage. “And if we want the Germans to take us seriously, we’d have to lay the groundwork first, soften up defenses with raids like we did in Italy back in September. It would take some time.”

Phillips scowls. “If that’s an attempt to get a timetable out of me for the real invasion, you’re wasting your breath. I don’t know any more than you do.”

She grins. “Worth a shot, sir.”

Phillips is already shaking his head. “Get me a mission outline—a _reasonable_ one, Rogers; remember you’ll be using relatively normal men for this—and I’ll see about kicking it up the food chain.”

“Yes, sir,” Stevie says smartly. “In the meantime, can we get provisional approval for the advance raids? We’ll need some official backing to coordinate drops and retrievals with the Air Corps or RAF guys, and I’d like to get us moving sooner rather than later.”

It’s not that easy, of course. The SSR has an open mandate to counteract HYDRA in the field, but getting authorization for anything above and beyond that requires a whole slew of meetings and paperwork. Even the support of a relatively senior officer, in Colonel Phillips, only goes so far; Captain America spends more than three weeks pitching her distraction plan over and over, to higher-ranking officers each time, until she finally reaches someone with the authority to give her a straight yes or no answer.

While she’s off fighting that battle with the upper brass, Bucky takes a map of France and goes looking for Peggy. Nobody knows where the main invasion is going to land—it’s all highly secretive, of course, but Bucky gets the impression the final decision hasn’t been made yet—so the two of them try to look at it from the Wehrmacht’s perspective. Where do the German defenses _feel_ weak? Where would a sabotage campaign do the most damage, draw the most reinforcements and attention away from a feasible landing zone?

By the time Stevie comes back with a final approval—and a list of eighty men to be placed under her command for the duration of the exercise—Bucky and Peggy between them have worked out a path of sequential raids up and down the occupied French coast. They call that Stage One, and it’s in full swing by the first of April.

For a little while, it’s like old times: parachuting behind enemy lines with packs full of explosives, trying to disrupt as many German units as possible for three- or four-day stretches at a time. They focus on anti-aircraft guns, flocks of tanks, ammunition depots, and other heavy or hard-to-replace machinery. Where possible, they coordinate with the French Resistance, who have been given orders to blow up or otherwise sabotage as many roads, railways, and bridges as possible. They have only eight weeks to work, and they make each one count. They cover hundreds of miles at a breakneck pace, moving from one coastal position to the next, doing as much damage as possible before disappearing into the night, either to a retrieval point or the next target.

The major difference from their normal operations, besides the lack of HYDRA targets, is that the team operates throughout the months of April and May at least one man short. The only person who goes on every single raid is Stevie; the rest of them take shifts staying behind to prepare for Stage Two. This mostly involves trying to get the extra eighty men ready to go into the field with Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Bucky, as the team sergeant, has to stay behind the most, to get everyone organized. His first shift is when the extra troops first report, his second is right at the halfway mark to assess progress, and the third is at the very end of Stage One, to be sure they’re ready.

That third shift at basecamp, when the rest of the team is in the field near Calais blowing up radar stations in an effort to convince the Germans a bombing run is imminent, is by far the hardest. Bucky is never exactly comfortable with Stevie being in enemy territory without him, but he normally trusts his team to watch her back. This time, though, they’ve been constantly on the move in a way they haven’t been since they were first formed a year ago. The last time Bucky saw Stevie, she was losing weight again and had dark circles under her eyes. He’d tried to convince her to take the last days off instead of him, or least _with_ him, but she’d refused. After all, the point of this was to make it clear Captain America was up to something in France, and for that she had to be seen by the German survivors of their raids.

The night before the team is due back from the final raid, Bucky finds that he can’t sleep. Everything has been checked and rechecked in advance of Stage Two, but if any of the men aren’t ready it’s too late to fix now; they leave for France in less than a week. Phillips had taken Bucky’s advice to heart, and every one of them is a volunteer, but that doesn’t necessarily make him feel better. This is going to be a one-way trip, and he knows it. If everything goes according to plan, they’ll be left to harry the Germans from behind enemy lines when the real invasion hits, and that’s the _best_ case scenario. They don’t have an extraction plan if they get into trouble, or if the invasion fails. They’ll be left in enemy territory, with no option but to surrender or try to do as much damage as they can before being put down.

Bucky toys with the idea of spending a night at the practice range to calm his nerves, but too many people have figured out his habits, and there’s almost always an excited crowd within a few minutes of him settling in to shoot. It’s not peaceful, like it used to be, and getting cornered for autographs or interviews—the media is getting desperate, because Phillips has the entire SSR on lockdown until the real invasion launches, just to be safe—won’t help him relax. He changes into old, ragged clothing instead and heads for Stark’s workshop. Nobody outside of the Commandos and Stark himself know about Stevie’s bike, so that should be safe.

Surprisingly, Bucky doesn’t have to use the spare key Stark had trusted him with to get inside, despite the late hour. There are lights already on in the shop. When Bucky slips inside, one hand on his favorite combat knife—just in case—he finds Stark himself at a workbench, striking something held in vice clamps with a large hammer. It emits a steady clanking of metal-on-metal, which puts Bucky’s teeth on edge. He debates turning around and leaving, but something about this doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t pretend to understand a tenth of what Stark gets up to in here on a daily basis, but even Bucky can tell that Stark isn’t accomplishing anything by beating on that whatever-it-is. It looks more like venting frustration.

Against his better judgment, Bucky continues inside. He makes a wide sweep around the workbench, giving Stark ample time to notice him, before he pulls the cover off Stevie’s bike and starts gathering tools. By the time he’s got the engine casing opened up, peering intently at an imaginary problem, he’s caught Stark’s interest.

“Can’t sleep, either?” Stark asks, sauntering up and taking the wrench right out of Bucky’s hand. He promptly begins disassembling the engine, hands flying across bolts and screws like a master pianist across the keys.

Bucky shrugs, stepping back. The first lesson he learned about hanging around in Stark’s workshop was not to get in his way when he started to get manic.

“Lot of that going around these days,” Stark adds. He brushes some of his floppy hair away from his face with a grimace. “What’s your particular ghost tonight, Barnes? And what are we doing with this thing?”

Bucky glances down to see that Stark already has the engine broken down almost entirely into components. “Um, nothing, really,” he says, in answer to both questions. “I just wanted something to keep my hands busy for a while. Settle my nerves.”

“Busy hands I can manage,” Stark says, with his trademark showman’s smile, the one that had been on the covers of magazines and newspapers when Bucky was still a snot-nosed teenager in his Pa’s garage. “Nerves, on the other hand … Well, you let me know if you figure that one out.”

For a little while, the two of them work in silence, save for when Stark asks for a new tool or instructs Bucky to hold something in place while he tinkers. It’s a companionable silence, though, and one Bucky has come to appreciate over the last year. He wouldn’t call Howard Stark a friend of his, exactly—that’s more up Stevie’s alley, with her officer’s commission; Stark is a millionaire entrepreneur, and Bucky is nothing more than a medium-level NCO—but they work well together.

Stark, for his part, seems to have come to the same conclusion. “You’ve got good instincts, you know,” he says, maybe an hour later. (The two of them have long since put Stevie’s bike back in order, and are now tinkering their way through the workshop one machine at a time.) “How were you with math, in school?”

Bucky glances up. “What?”

Stark doesn’t do anything so pedestrian as make eye contact, continuing to work his magic on the disassembled weapon—Bucky thinks it used to be a grenade launcher, maybe—in front of him. “Math. You know: algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus. Well, you probably didn’t get through most of that in public school. Have you got a decent head for numbers?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Not like the Captain,” he says. (Stark knows Stevie’s secret, of course—he designed her uniform with the compression shirt and padding that hides her curves, after all—but it still doesn’t feel right using her nickname in front of him.) “I did all right, though. Could have graduated, if I’d stuck with it. Why?”

“You’re a good mechanic, Barnes,” Stark says flatly. “But I bet I could turn you into a damn fine engineer, with a little work. _If_ you could handle the math.”

Bucky blinks. He’s not sure he’s heard Stark correctly. “What?” he says again.

“You got plans, after the war is over?” Stark asks him. “Because I’d be willing to offer you a job. Even if I can’t teach you calculus, I can always use more mechanics around my labs. At least I can trust you with sensitive equipment; you’ve got that sniper’s calm, and all.” He holds up his hands long enough to wiggle his fingers a few times. “Steady hands.”

Bucky is too stunned to say anything for a long moment.

“What do you say?” Stark asks.

Bucky swallows. “I’d … I think I’d really like that, actually,” he says, caught off guard by how much of a true statement that is. He spent so long running from his father’s garage that he’d forgotten how much he loved the work; it took Stark—and Stevie’s prompting—to remind him that he was good at something besides shooting people.

“Good!” Stark flings a tool in the vicinity of his bench. “It’s settled, then. When you get out, first thing you do is come see me, all right?”

Bucky’s already shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s likely,” he admits.

“What? Why not?” Stark looks personally offended. “You got a family business to run, or something? I could probably buy it out for you.”

Bucky tries to smile, but it comes out bitter. “I don’t think there’s any ‘getting out,’ not for a long, long time.”

“Nonsense,” Stark says. “This war is won; the Nazis just haven’t figured it out, yet. One more year, maybe eighteen months at the most, and everybody will get to go home.”

“Not Captain America,” Bucky says quietly. “She’s too useful. The minute we catch up to Schmidt and HYDRA for good, we’ll be on the next boat for the Pacific.”

Stark shrugs. “Even that war has to end sometime.” Something dark crosses his face, and he looks like he wants to hit something with a hammer, the way he was when Bucky came in. “I’ve been avoiding a weapons project for the US Army—I’m an engineer, not a theoretical physicist—but they’re at the point now where they’ve got the science pretty much figured out. Now they just need a delivery system, which is where I come in.” His mouth twists into a grimace. “It’s going to change the way we wage war, as a species. If this mess isn’t already over by the time we get it operational, it will be afterward.”

Bucky doesn’t ask. He knows a dirty secret when he sees one, and he has no desire to carry around anyone else’s baggage. He’s got enough of his own already. Stark will either learn to live with what he’s helping create, or he won’t, and either way he’ll have to do it alone.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky says, shrugging his shoulders. “Even if the Germans _and_ the Japanese surrendered tomorrow, do you really think the US Army is going to let Captain America, what? Retire? Get honorably discharged? Disappear into a civilian life?” He shakes his head. “There’s always an enemy to fight somewhere, even if it’s just on a stage.”

Stark watches him for a moment, with those sharp, intelligent eyes. “And Sergeant Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando?” he asks. “Is he stuck, too?”

“He goes where Captain America goes,” Bucky says instantly. “Always.”

Stark slaps him on the shoulder. “Well, far be it for me to come between a fella and his girl,” he says, obviously trying to lighten the mood. (He even manages to say it with a straight face.)

Bucky shakes his head. “It isn’t like that,” he says quietly. “Not entirely. I just—we’re both of us better off when we’re together, I think. It’s been that way for so long that we don’t know how to be apart, anymore.” He smiles, and this time it sticks. “Maybe we never did.”

Stark hums thoughtfully. “Well,” he says after a moment. “If you ever change your mind, there’ll be a place for you at Stark Industries, as long as I have anything to say about it.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says quietly, and means it. Even if he can’t ever take Stark up on it, it’s nice to know there might be a place out there where he _could_ belong, if he ever got the chance.

In the end, he doesn’t get any sleep that night. He feels better come dawn, anyway.

By the time Stevie and the rest of the Commandos show up the next afternoon, battered and dirty but flush with success, he’s almost relaxed. Stage Two of _Operation: Distract the Germans from the Real Invasion of France_ is about to launch, and it’s the craziest thing they’ve attempted yet, but Bucky’s strangely not worried. The tides are turning, according to both Phillips and Stark. They’re going to win this war. They’re going to burn HYDRA to the ground. Whatever comes next, good or bad, Bucky knows he’ll be at Stevie’s side. That’s all that really matters.

Maybe Bucky should have known that meant everything was about to go straight to hell.

 

\--

 

When Stevie storms out of their apartment in the autumn of 1940, she doesn’t come back home for two whole days.

By that point, Bucky is frantic, checking everywhere he can think of and praying that she hasn’t picked a fight out of spite and gotten herself put in the hospital (or worse). He keeps checking the recruitment centers compulsively, determined to catch her before some doctor does, or she slips through and gets shipped off for basic training. He tells all their neighbors that they had a falling out over a girl—which is, oddly enough, sort of true—and asks them to keep an eye out in case she comes by during the day while he’s at work.

When she finally does come home, wearing the same clothes from two days earlier, Bucky is swamped by relief for all of three or four seconds before he’s livid again. Maybe demanding right off the bat that she tell him where the hell she’s been isn’t the best tactic, but he was _worried, dammit, Stevie_. Doesn’t she understand that he’s been looking everywhere for her? If she wants to be mad at him, fine, but she shouldn’t just disappear for _two days_ and leave him thinking she’s lying dead on a street corner somewhere—

Stevie doesn’t hang around to listen to his rant; she turns right back around and storms out a second time, without ever saying a word.

This time, Bucky tries to follow her. She throws a punch on the landing, and while Bucky is busy regretting ever teaching her how to hit properly, she sneaks inside and locks him out (because of _course_ he doesn’t have his key on him). He spends about two hours banging on the door to no avail, until an aggravated Frank Dunleavy drags him back to his apartment across the hall and forcibly feeds him dinner, and then a fifth of whiskey. He lets Bucky sleep on his couch.

Stevie lets him back in the next morning, still without speaking a word to him. They move around their apartment like ghosts, avoiding each other as much as possible in such tight quarters. Needless to say, for the first time in almost two years, they sleep in their separate rooms. The most communicating they do is adding separate items to the grocery list in the kitchen.

By the end of the first week, Bucky has had enough. He tries three times to apologize, but each time Stevie gives him a coolly judgmental look and asks if he’s ready to come with her to the recruitment office. Bucky won’t take back his threat to reveal her secret, telling himself that it’s for her own good; Stevie won’t forgive him for it. They go on that way, strangers in a too-small space, strained and uncomfortable, with no end in sight.

When a month has gone by, Bucky has run out of excuses for their friends. He puts on his devil-may-care grin and hits the bars on Friday night with some of the guys from work. It feels like reaching for the next rung on a ladder and missing, not having Stevie at his elbow to joke and laugh and sling his arm over. He catches himself rejecting a potential date three times, just because she doesn’t have a sister or friend for Stevie to double with.

The fourth time he starts to turn someone down, he changes his mind and kisses her breathless right there at the bar. He doesn’t make it back home until late, well past midnight, reeking of cheap liquor and floral perfume. Stevie is still awake when he comes in, sitting with her sketchbook on the couch. They don’t speak, but she watches him stumble toward his room with a clinical eye.

Part of him wants to kneel down next to her, take one of her hands, and ask her if she’s still his girl. It’s their ritual after a night spent flirting and dancing with dames, a reminder for both of them that no matter who they’ve been with all evening, it’s really only each other that matter at the end of the night. He does it every time they come home after a date: pulls her into his arms and whispers into her ear, _You still my girl, Stevie?_

But he can’t get the words out, this time. He’s afraid she’ll say no.

Instead, Bucky flicks off the light and climbs into bed, the scent of another woman filling up their apartment. He falls asleep to the sound of Stevie’s angry silence.

The fight finally ends on a Sunday morning two weeks later, after Bucky’s been out yet again without her. He’s also nursing a hangover, because Frank Dunleavy and Chester Miller had made it their personal goal to get him drunk enough last night to forget that ‘Steve’ was still pissed at him. (Herbert Dunleavy is one of the many who have disappeared for basic training.)

It’s Stevie’s turn to make breakfast, which—after years of practice—she’s finally mastered. She puts down a bowl of oatmeal in front of him by slamming it down on the table a little harder than necessary.

Bucky picks up his spoon and stirs it listlessly, trying to keep the smell from making him vomit. Stevie, of course, hadn’t reminded him to drink water before going to sleep last night. They haven’t said a civil word to each other in weeks.

Stevie sits down across from him, with her own bowl in front of her, and watches him.

“What?” Bucky asks nastily, after a long moment of her silent staring. “What is it? Do I have something on my face?”

Stevie sits back in her chair. “I hate this,” she says suddenly.

Bucky does a double-take. He’s gotten used to her ignoring him when he tries to talk to her. “This what?” he asks. “This oatmeal? You could have made eggs. Do we have any eggs this week?”

She glares at him. “Don’t you start—” She bites off the rest of that sentence and visibly swallows her temper. “I hate this. _Us_ , when we’re fighting. I hate it. I can’t do it anymore.”

Bucky feels his beleaguered stomach do a stupidly hopeful flip. “Are you saying you don’t want to be mad at me anymore?”

“No,” Stevie says instantly. “Maybe. I don’t know. But something has to change. We can’t go on like this, Buck.”

It’s the first time she’s said his name since _I don’t need your protection, Bucky Barnes_ , almost two months ago.

His head is pounding and his mouth is dry, and he’s suddenly more afraid than he’s ever been in his life. “Can’t we just go back?” he asks. “Forget this whole stupid fight ever happened?” He swallows on a tight throat. “We were happy, before,” he says. “Weren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Stevie says quietly. “Happier than I think I’ve ever been.”

“Great,” Bucky says. He’s beginning to get excited. “It’s forgotten. It never happened.”

Stevie is already shaking her head. “No, Bucky.”

“What?” he asks. “Why not?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Bucky looks at her, sitting calmly in her chair at their table, untouched oatmeal steaming slightly above the bowl with the chipped rim. Whenever she sets the table, she takes the broken one for herself. She says it’s because Bucky never pays enough attention, and he’d cut himself on the sharp edge if he wasn’t careful.

“So explain it to me,” Bucky says. “Please, Stevie. Tell me how to fix this.”

“I already did,” Stevie says, voice firm. “You’re the one who won’t back down.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to sit back in his chair. “I’m not going to the recruitment center with you,” he says flatly.

“Why not?”

He doesn’t want to get into it with her again, about her asthma and damaged heart and going to jail if she’s caught as a girl. He offers up his other reason, instead. “Because me they’d actually take,” he says. “Then what would I do?”

Stevie’s voice falls into that sarcastic drawl that gets her into so much trouble in alleys and bars. “Fight for your country?” she offers.

Bucky shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

Stevie studies him for a long moment, disappointment clear in her eyes. “I never pegged you for a coward, Bucky Barnes.”

“Excuse me?”

Stevie sticks out her chin, stubborn as ever. “You heard me.”

Bucky carefully puts his spoon down on the table, heedless of the oatmeal scum that gets smeared on the wood. “You think I’m a coward for not joining up?”

“Well?” Stevie asks. “What would you call it? All I’ve ever wanted is a chance to fight, to prove that I can. You’ve got that chance, but you’re refusing to take it. If you’re not afraid, then why?”

Bucky can’t believe she doesn’t understand. “I’d get shipped out,” he says. “I’d be gone for months at a time, if not longer. I can’t leave you like that.”

Stevie goes very still in her chair. “I will _not_ be your excuse to—”

“God _damn_ it, Stevie,” Bucky curses. “It’s not an excuse!”

“Yes, it is,” Stevie snaps right back. “I don’t need to you babysit me.”

“Right,” Bucky says, sarcastic. He’s losing his temper, even though he knows that’s a bad idea. “So the next time you stop some asshole from beating up somebody else by taking the punches yourself, what’s to stop them from leaving you bloody in the street? Without me there to end it, and to patch you up after, how long do you really think you’ll make it before you end up in the hospital?”

“I can take care of myself,” Stevie says.

“And the next time you get the flu?” Bucky asks. His voice continues to get louder. “When you’re laid up in bed for three weeks, and you lose your job because you can’t even hold a pencil with that kind of fever? How are you going to pay the rent? Who’s going to sit up all night to make sure you’re still breathing once it turns into pneumonia? Who’s going to bring you warm water with honey for your cough, or walk to the pharmacy in six inches of snow to get a compress for your chest?”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” Bucky says, his tone clipped and harsh. “Don’t expect me to sit in some army barracks halfway across the country and think about you here, bloody and broken on a street corner or struggling to breathe in some awful hospital ward, all alone.” He realizes that he’s shaking, and clenches his fists on the table. “Don’t you ask me to do that. It’s never going to happen. If that makes me a coward, so be it.” He’s breathing hard, and he makes himself lower his voice. “Losing you is the only thing I’ve ever been scared of, since I was nine years old. And every asthma attack, every alley fight, every heart murmur or winter cough—”

“Bucky,” Stevie says again, cutting him off. She has tears in her eyes. She gets up, walks around the table, and puts a hand on the back of his neck. Her fingers are cool because of her poor blood circulation. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I know you want to, but that’s not your job.”

He looks up at her. It’s not far, even though he’s sitting and she’s standing up, because she’s so small. “I can’t help it,” he tells her. “I’ve been looking out for you since I found you in that alley behind the grocer’s.” He shrugs. “It’s who I am.”

Stevie shakes her head at him. “You are James Barnes,” she says firmly. “You have your own life to live. And you have to let me live mine.”

“I’m Bucky,” he whispers, because it’s true; nobody but Stevie uses that nickname, but it’s how he thinks of himself, inside his own head. “And I don’t want my own life. I want this one, the one we share.”

Stevie closes her eyes. If she’s trying to stop her tears, it doesn’t work, because they spill out onto her cheeks. “I don’t,” she says, and it comes out strangled.

Bucky is so stunned that he leans backward in shock.

Stevie is still crying, but her voice never wavers. “I can’t just be the little guy who follows you around for the rest of my life,” she says. “And I can’t just be your girl, either. I have to … to _be_ something. My own person, man or woman. The Army is just one way for me to get there, and maybe do some good while I’m at it.”

Bucky turns in his chair, facing her. He opens his knees and reaches out for her waist, pulling her close. “But I love you,” he says. That always fixes everything, in the stories. That should be enough. “Why are you mad at me for wanting to protect you? For worrying about you if I wasn’t here?”

Stevie has both of her hands on his head now, threading her fingers through his messy, hung-over hair. Her touch is soft, but her words are hard. “I’m mad because you don’t understand the difference between protecting me, and taking away my choices.”

Bucky thinks about that for a while. “I just don’t want you fighting a war,” he whispers.

“That’s not your decision to make.” Stevie leans down and kisses the crown of his head, like a benediction. “This is my life, Bucky. I get to choose how I live it. You can disagree with me, argue with me when I have a stupid idea, try to protect me when it all goes pear-shaped—but you can’t stop me from being who I am.” She swallows again, and more tears trickle out to flow down her cheeks. “It hurts that you even want to try.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “This all started because I was trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

“I know,” Stevie says. She sighs once and pulls her hands out of his hair. “I think—” She has to pause and gather herself. “I think I need to find my own place.”

Bucky snaps his eyes open. “What?” he says, blindsided. “No. I’ll fix this. I promise, Stevie. I’ll find a way to make it right. You don’t have to leave.”

“I really think I do,” Stevie whispers. “God, Buck, I moved in with you when I was seventeen. I won’t say that was a mistake, because it was what I needed—what we both needed, I think—at the time. But now?” She takes a step back away from him. “Now I think we need a little space.”

Bucky’s chest feels tight, like he can’t breathe. He has a fleeting thought that this must be what it’s like when Stevie has an asthma attack. “But we’re … _us_ ,” he says. The idea of her leaving, of them being apart, is so foreign that it doesn’t even seem real. “Bucky and Stevie,” he says. “Always. Remember?”

Stevie nods. “I think that’s the problem,” she says quietly. “Steve or Stephanie, I’ve always been that Rogers kid that follows James Buchanan Barnes around. I need to figure out who I am without you.”

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky says. He feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. “You being gone is going to be like losing a limb.”

“I know,” Stevie says, and he doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse that she sounds as wrecked as he feels. “That’s why I have to go, Buck.”

Bucky swallows against the tightness in his throat. “When?”

“As soon as I can find a place,” Stevie says. She makes a valiant effort to smile. “It doesn’t have to be forever,” she promises. “I don’t _want_ it to be forever. Just long enough to … to find some perspective, maybe. Give you a chance to do the same.”

Bucky tries to argue, but—as usual—Stevie gets her way, in the end. He doesn’t try to stop her as she packs up her things and goes out looking for a cheap one-bedroom apartment. He’s learned his lesson about interfering in her choices; he just hopes he hasn’t learned it too late.

The next thing Bucky knows, he’s borrowing his Pa’s car to help her move into her new place. It only takes a couple hours to carry up the boxes of clothes and toiletries and a couple pieces of the furniture that they bought together and have decided to split.

On his way out of her new apartment for the last time, Bucky can’t help but pull Stevie into his arms before he gets to the door. He’s beyond relieved when she doesn’t fight it, even wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest.

Bucky puts his mouth down by her ear and finds the courage to whisper, “You still my girl, Stevie?”

“Always, Buck,” Stevie tells him, and squeezes him as tight as her tiny arms can manage. “The way I love you—it’s a part of me. I don’t think I could change that if I tried.”

_Then why can’t you stay?_

Bucky doesn’t say it, though. If this is really what she needs, then he’ll do his best to give her space, even though it feels like it’s going to kill him. It’s a truth very few people know, but he needs Stevie more than Stevie needs him. He always has. Somehow, everybody always thinks it’s the other way around. Stevie included, but then again, her biggest blind spot has always been James Buchanan Barnes.

He kisses her cheek before he leaves, and she lets him.

“Stay out of trouble,” Bucky says as he walks out onto the landing, trying to make it sound like a friendly request, and not the desperate plea it really is.

“Yeah,” Stevie says. “You, too.”

Bucky is all the way down the stairs before he hears her close the door behind him. He thinks maybe he can hear her crying, but he doesn’t turn around to check.

 

\--

 

As if lulling Bucky into a false sense of security, Stage Two gets off to a remarkably auspicious start. Even the most forgiving predictions suggested that they’d lose at least one out of every three planes during the drop, but for whatever reason the Germans are slow to react with anti-aircraft fire. Of the veritable fleet of paratroop planes and their part-escort, part-camouflage squads of bombers and fighters, only four don’t make it through the coastal defenses. Bucky has heard the talk going around the Army gossip chain, but this is his first real indication that the Allied plan for air superiority is working; the Luftwaffe doesn’t make an appearance, and they get through almost unscathed.

It still makes for a nerve-wracking night as they trek toward the rendezvous point after the jump, with no way of knowing if any of the Commandos were on the planes that did get shot down. Logic had made them split up, to decrease the chances of a lucky shot taking out the entire team at once.

(Bucky and Stevie had been on the same plane anyway, because the idea of losing the other one in a fiery explosion over which neither of them had any control … Well. Bucky had stood by what he said in that HYDRA factory, and Stevie had immediately agreed, tactical disadvantage be damned. _No, not without you_.)

Their worries turn out to be unfounded, though; they get to the rendezvous point and find each of the others waiting for them, no worse for wear. The headcount is only eleven men missing, out of eighty, with no sign that anyone was spotted parachuting in. It’s a much better start to the mission than anybody could have hoped.

Those initial casualties still hit Bucky hard, harder than the men they’d lost in Italy. He’d helped plan this operation from the ground up, so he feels more responsible, somehow, even if there was never any chance of bringing everyone back alive.

Three days later, Bucky’s starting to question whether they’ll bring _anyone_ back alive.

The good news is that the mission is a rousing success, in that reinforcements are pouring into northwestern France. Those same reinforcements won’t be in position to respond to the actual invasion, which has been the whole point of this. Every time Gabe and his scouting unit reports another division or tank brigade is closing in on them, the Free French volunteers (who obviously have the most at stake) let out an actual cheer.

The bad news is that the mission is a rousing success, beyond anyone’s wildest projections, and German reinforcements are responding in unmanageable numbers. By the time they’ve hit and retreated from three or four coastal defense emplacements, they’re thoroughly surrounded and laughably outnumbered.

The original plan had been to hit several targets around the northern French coast, all the way up to Calais (the most prominent false location ‘leaked’ to the Germans), until the actual invasion hit. Then they’re supposed to make themselves scarce, harassing the German defenders from behind if they can, until the Allies establish a beachhead. They would then slip through the lines and be evacuated back across the Channel via retreating landing craft.

By the third day, when they should be wheeling around to start heading south for Normandy—which Stevie (and therefore Bucky), but nobody else, had known was the real invasion site—they’re boxed in by over a thousand men, with _ten_ thousand getting closer every hour. They’re running low on explosives and ammunition, and they haven’t stopped moving long enough for any real sleep beyond catnapping since they were dropped. Of the eighty men they started with, barely twenty remain at the end of three days.

Some had been killed assaulting coastal defenses, and others had split off into small auxiliary squads to draw attention away from the main group. The worst part was that most had simply been wounded, and left behind. They were moving much too quickly to carry anyone, so the best they could do was pull the men who’d been hit out of the direct line of fire. Sometimes they left them with a canteen or a ration pack, if they had a chance. Those men would end up captured by the Germans, if they didn’t bleed out or starve first. It went against every instinct Stevie had, but she’d agreed to the necessity. Every man who had volunteered had agreed to it, too, before being allowed to come. That didn’t make it any easier to do, for any of them.

Two days later, on the evening of June 6, Stevie announces that the real invasion has launched, as of that morning. Their mission is officially over. The local troops will obviously continue to hunt them, but all reinforcements will already be headed south to face the larger threat. Not even the presence of Captain America can compete with a possible Allied beachhead on French soil. The element of surprise is long gone. Their only objective now is to survive.

That night, without knowing if the real invasion has succeeded or been repelled, Stevie gives Jim the order to break radio silence and request a hot-zone evacuation. The answer is exactly what Bucky had known it would be from the start; all craft, air or sea, are tied up in the invasion fleet. They’re on their own.

On the ground, they have vanishingly few options. If they try to break through the troops immediately surrounding them, they’ll just end up caught in the wider net farther inland. The idea of striking south to join the invasion forces is out of the question. It’s too far, through too many German soldiers. None of them would make it. By that point, even counting Stevie and the six Howling Commandos, they're down to eighteen men, no explosives, and only enough ammunition for one serious fight.

With no other real choice, Stevie gives the order to dissolve the company into smaller groups of two or three men each. They’re to go to ground as best they can, slipping around German forces and melting into the French countryside. If they can reach any Resistance contacts, they might even be able to lay low long enough to get an extraction. They change out of their uniforms in an attempt to go unnoticed, even though it means they’ll be executed as spies instead of held as POW’s, if they do get caught.

Most of them aren’t going to make it. There’s a good chance that none of them will, in fact. Maybe the surviving Free French, on their home ground and able to speak the native language fluently, but there’s little enough chance even for them. Bucky can see that knowledge in Stevie’s eyes as she gives the order, and in the company’s eyes as they listen, but nobody says so out loud. Sometimes the illusion of hope is all that matters.

Captain America, of course, is going to stay behind in her red, white, and blue and launch one final attack to try to draw attention. Maybe she can create a gap for the rest of the men to slip through. At the very least it might buy them some time, keep some of them alive long enough that a suicidal pilot might be able to come for them. (It’s a shame Howard Stark has been sent back Stateside, Bucky thinks; he’s pretty sure Peggy could have talked him into it, for Stevie.)

The Commandos, to a man, immediately volunteer to stay behind with her. (Except for Bucky, who doesn’t say a word, just checks the ammunition for his rifle and nods.) Stevie looks angry, but only for a few seconds before she accepts it. She doesn’t try to argue with any of them. It’s not like going to ground is much safer, anyway, and there’s a kind of comfort in staying together.

The rest of the company disperses throughout the night, until by dawn it’s just the seven of them left. For one wild moment, Bucky is almost convinced that everything is going to be fine. How many times have they—Captain America and her crazy Howling Commandos—survived in hostile territory against long odds? This is what they do. This is _all_ they do, practically. What’s a few thousand regular Nazis compared to HYDRA?

Then he sees the twitch in Jim’s steady hands as he fiddles one last time with the radio dials. (Bucky had told him, privately, to keep sending the extraction request, not just on SSR channels but across any Allied frequency he could find.) Bucky notices that Jacques has both tears and a satisfied smile on his face, even long after the last of his countrymen have disappeared. Dum Dum is obsessively cleaning dirt off that stupid hat, like he wants it to look its best. Gabe has taken out the picture of his girl that he _never_ looks at in the field, saying it’s bad luck. Monty lights up the cigar that he’s carried all across Europe and back, the one he’s always said he’s saving for the day the Germans surrender.

Bucky looks around at his team, and he knows. This is their final stand, and every one of them can feel it.

Bucky doesn’t try to make an excuse, or slip away from the others. He doesn’t have to, anymore. These men already know all his secrets. He just walks up to Stevie, undoes the clasps to take off her helmet, puts his hands on either side of her neck, and tilts her forehead down until he can reach it with his own. She doesn’t pull away, or scold him for showing affection out in the open. She just puts her arms around him and waits, letting him lead.

There are so many things he could say, or do: sweep her into a dip like some Hollywood cliché, kiss her breathless, swear his undying love, promise her that everything will be okay even though neither of them are that naïve. What words could possibly sum up everything she means to him? What action could possibly express the truth of their relationship, in this moment?

Bucky chooses to look into her eyes and say, very softly but still audible to the Commandos around them, “You still my girl, Stevie?”

She laughs. (There are tears in her eyes.) “Always, Buck,” she says. “You ever going to believe me, and stop asking that?”

Bucky shrugs his shoulders a bit. “Well,” he says, a mischievous look in his eye. “I _could_ ask you a different question, now that you mention it.”

Stevie lifts one hand to smack him in the shoulder. “You _jerk_ ,” she says, in mock-outrage. “Are you really going to propose right before we die?”

He smirks. “This just might be my only chance, darling,” he says.

Her nose scrunches up in disgust. “Darling? Really?”

Bucky brushes dirty hair away from her forehead, sweaty and limp from where it’s been under her helmet. “Sweetheart?” he suggests.

“No.”

“Doll?”

“ _Don’t you dare._ ”

“Honey?” Bucky offers, raising his eyebrows inquisitively. “Sugar?”

She gives him a flat, unimpressed look.

“Any other cooking ingredients? Flour, maybe?”

She bursts out laughing. (So do a couple of the Commandos, who aren’t even pretending not to listen.)

“Or, wait, is it just things that go in tea?” Bucky pretends to think for a moment. “How about Lemon?”

“James Barnes, you are the _worst_ ,” she says around chuckles.

He smiles. “Bucky,” he corrects gently.

Just like that, the humor vanishes from her face. “My Bucky,” she says. She sweeps one hand through his hair, from crown to the back of his neck, and holds him close. “And your Stevie.”

“Always,” Bucky whispers.

He doesn’t know who closes the distance between them—maybe they do it, like so much else, together—but they’re kissing, then. (Neither of them notice, as such, but the Commandos rapidly step away or turn their backs, giving them the illusion of privacy.) For the first time, the true reality of their situation shows in the way they cling to each other, as if trying to cram an entire lifetime into one single kiss. But it’s not harsh, or even desperate. It’s sweet and warm and a little bit sad, an unwilling goodbye.

The silence is broken a moment later by Jim’s voice. “Wait, say again?” he suddenly demands.

Bucky and Stevie turn, still holding onto each other.

Jim is fiddling with his radio dials, one hand holding the receiver to his ear. “Copy that,” he says, eyes wide. “Stand by for encoded coordinates.”

Stevie’s grip on Bucky tightens. “Jim?” she prompts.

Jim glances up, grinning madly. “The landings yesterday were a success,” he says, so rapidly that the words tumble all over each other. “Allied Command has just authorized a small extraction plane, to get Captain America back to friendly territory!”

Bucky releases a huff of breath, and it feels like all the tension in his body drains away at once. Jim’s message had finally gotten through to the right people.

“Wait, what about the rest of the men?” Stevie demands instantly.

“They’ve already scattered,” Monty points out quietly. “Even if we had a way to recall them, how would they find us in time?”

Jim nods. “It’s us or nobody, Cap. Command was specific about that.”

Stevie doesn’t like it, but she isn’t about to turn down a ride back to England for her team, either. She nods to Gabe, who has already pulled out his map, and he immediately starts calling out coordinates for Jim to relay over the radio.

When he’s finished, Jim waits for confirmation, and then shuts everything down. “Our plane’s already in the air,” he announces. “Fifteen minutes, at the nearest open clearing.”

“Then let’s move,” Stevie says quietly. “Gabe, you take point. Keep us out of sight.”

Bucky forgoes his usual slot at the rear to walk at Stevie’s side instead. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly as they march carefully through the trees. “But every one of those men knew what he was signing up for.” He hesitates. “They might still make it. We’ll badger Phillips until he organizes retrievals.”

Stevie sighs. “I just don’t like getting preferential treatment. Why is my life more important than anyone else’s?”

Bucky shrugs, like this isn’t exactly what he hoped would happen when he encouraged her to keep the outfit, or when he led a cheer for Captain America, or every time he agrees to the publicity and pictures and interviews. “You let them turn you into a symbol, Stevie,” he says. “That means you’re more than just another soldier. You knew that going in.”

Stevie just shakes her head.

“Bad timing, though,” Bucky says, trying to lighten the mood. (Stevie’s mood; the others are just on the professional side of jubilant at having escaped a suicide run.) “They couldn’t give us five more minutes? We were right in the middle of our tragic goodbye.” He pouts. “I was trying to propose.”

She smiles. It’s sad, but she smiles. “No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was,” Bucky insists. “And you were going to say yes, too, because you thought you wouldn’t have to go through with it.”

She gives him a playful little shove. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t get your chance,” she says. “What would we have done if—”

The calm around them is shattered by a loud crack that Bucky recognizes in his bones. His soldier’s training has him dropping to the ground the moment the sound reaches him, but his sniper’s instincts know it’s pointless; the sound always travels slower than the bullet.

Right beside him, Stevie frowns. Bucky watches, paralyzed, as she lifts a hand to her chest, just a few inches from her heart. She cocks her head slightly, confused, and her mouth forms the shape of his name: _Buck?_

Around her fingers, thick red blood begins seeping through the uniform.

“No!” Bucky screams, reaching for her, but it’s too late.

She falls.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The first thought Bucky has, watching Stevie fall, is that he’s supposed to go into shock. Time is supposed to slow to a crawl, so that he can hear each beat of his heart like rolling thunder. His focus is supposed to narrow, until everything is just the stretched-out moment where he reaches for her. The rest of the world is supposed to fall away, sounds muted and colors washed out, so that all he can see is the slowly spreading red stain blooming across the white star on her chest.

It doesn’t happen at all like that. It’s loud, chaotic, and everything moves much too quickly.

“Captain!”

“What the hell?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Get down!”

Stevie hits her knees in the dirt, one hand outstretched for balance, the other pressed to the wound near her heart. She crumples sideways as soon as she’s down, but Bucky is already there. He catches her shoulders and slips behind her, holding her tight.

“Bucky?” she says, and then coughs up a mouthful of blood.

Bucky’s well-trained hands are already pressed to the entrance wound, over her star. “Breathe,” he snaps harshly, pulling her into his lap and crawling backwards away from the shooter. “Just breathe for me, Stevie,” he begs, like he has a thousand times before, like this is nothing more than another asthma attack.

The Commandos had dispersed at the first sign of gunfire, as they’ve been trained to do. The sight of their Captain going down, though, seems to have frozen them in place. Bucky should start shouting orders, take charge, but all he can think about is the bullet somewhere in Stevie’s chest cavity. She’s coughing up blood. Every instinct is telling him that it’s a fatal shot. If it didn’t nick one of the big arteries in that area, then she’s going to drown in her own blood as it fills up her lungs.

“Gabe! Get Cap and Sarge to the extraction point, fast as you can.” It’s Monty’s voice, and Bucky has never been so glad of that unflappable English calm, or the officer training of one Lieutenant James Montgomery Falsworth. “Jim, you’re covering them. Dum Dum, Jacques, you’re with me; we’re going to keep the Germans busy until that plane gets here.”

Bucky registers Gabe’s presence at his elbow, and then they’re hauling Stevie upright between them. Bucky keeps his hand pressed to the entrance wound, even though part of him knows it’s a delaying tactic at best. Stevie lets out a hoarse cry of pain, and more blood bubbles up to coat her lips and teeth.

“B—Buck—”

“Easy,” Bucky says, as gently as he can. (His adrenaline is so high that it doesn’t come out very gentle at all.) He wishes he had one of those field-ready morphine doses, to give her some relief. “Just breathe, Stevie. You’ve got to breathe for me.”

Maybe shock does set in, belatedly, at that point. Bucky doesn’t remember much of the rush to the landing field, but that may just be because he doesn’t look away from Stevie’s face the entire time. She’s gone pale, almost gray, the way she hasn’t since the last time she was fighting off pneumonia in the hospital. Her eyes have rolled back in her head, and she’s unresponsive.

Bucky doesn’t stop talking to her, though, not for a second. “Come on, Stevie,” he says, holding her close. (If he’s rocking her, just a bit, the way he’d do when they were kids and she couldn’t sleep for coughing, he doesn’t quite register it.) “You’re going to be fine. What good is that stupid serum otherwise, huh? You’ve just got to keep breathing for me, Stevie. Please.”

At some point, Bucky notices that Gabe has sprinkled sulfa powder on her wound and covered it with a wad of bandages; his slender fingers are pressed to the pulse point at her slack wrist. His eyes are tight and worried, lips forming a slim line. “Five minutes, for the plane,” he says, when he sees Bucky staring at him.

Five minutes until the plane lands; a couple more to get everyone on board and take back off. Thirty minutes to fly back across the Channel (if they don’t get shot down). Ten or fifteen more to get Stevie unloaded at the airfield and rushed to the closest military hospital.

It’s too long. But it’s already _been_ too long, and Stevie is still breathing, albeit shallowly. The serum is allowing her to hold on, when anyone else would have been dead by now.

“Come on,” Bucky whispers. “Come on, Stevie. Just breathe.”

It’s the longest hour of Bucky’s life.

He barely registers the rest of the Commandos around him as they lift Stevie into the back of the plane; he doesn’t ask if the shooter was alone or part of a patrol or how they secured the area in order to let the plane land safely. He doesn’t know if they fly unmolested all the way back across the Channel, or if they spend the whole flight dodging anti-aircraft fire. All he knows is that Stevie is still breathing, slow and shallow. She’s still warm and real in his arms. For now.

The medics at the RAF airfield are waiting for them on the runway; somebody must have radioed ahead. They must understand the look in his eye, because nobody says a word when he jumps into the ambulance after her stretcher.

Bucky holds her hand as the medics swarm around her. (Someone has unclipped the shield from her back in order to lay her flat on the stretcher, and Bucky is absently carrying it in his other hand.) “Almost there, Stevie,” he says. “Come on.”

Then they’re at the hospital, and they unload her and carry her stretcher into the triage area. Someone is yelling, “Surgery Three! Prep Surgery Three, and somebody find Dr. Abrams! We’ve got a gunshot wound to the upper chest cavity with heavy internal bleeding and a possible punctured lung!”

“Sergeant? Sergeant, I need to you let him go. We have to take him.”

Bucky looks up and sees several medics (doctors?) and nurses crowded around Stevie’s stretcher in the hallway. They’re trying to take her into a doorway, and there’s an orderly blocking Bucky from going with them. They can’t take her until he lets go.

One of the nurses leans over with a massive pair of scissors. She gets them in the collar of Stevie’s uniform and starts to cut down. The reinforced fabric doesn’t tear easily, but her motions are strong and practiced, and the material begins to yield.

“No, don’t!” Bucky lets go of Stevie’s hand to make a grab for the scissors.

“Sergeant,” one of the nurses says again. She’s got a grip on his arm and is trying to pull him away. He’s off-balance enough that she succeeds in moving him half a step, out of range to stop what’s happening. “Let them do their jobs. We’ll take good care of him; I promise.”

Bucky stares as the blades slice through Stevie’s uniform top, feeling helpless. “You don’t understand.”

The scissors cut through the Captain America uniform from throat to navel, and the padded compression shirt beneath. When the nurses peel the fabric back, exposing Stevie’s bare chest, everything stops. (Bucky can finally see the damage, angry swelling and stark red blood against her pale skin, but that’s not what everyone else is staring at.)

“What is this?” one of the doctors demands.

“Help her,” Bucky pleads. It’s loud in the sudden silence of the hospital corridor.

“Her?” somebody else says, obviously too far away to see for themselves. “This is Captain America!”

“Yes, it is,” Bucky says. “And she’s dying. _Help_ her!”

It breaks the spell. Even though mutters and whispers are spreading rapidly through the watching crowd, the doctors and nurses immediately around Stevie’s stretcher snap back into action. Bucky finally allows the nurse who had spoken to him pull him away, and the stretcher disappears through a doorway.

Bucky’s knees give out, and for a long moment all he hears is a rushing sound in his ears.

“—blood on you. Are you hurt? Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky blinks. He’s sitting on the floor of the triage room, back pressed to a wall. The same nurse is crouched in front of him, one hand gently pressed to his elbow, looking at him in concern.

“What?” he says.

“Are you hurt, Sergeant?” she asks again. She’s slim and petite, in her mid or late thirties, and she has that forced-calm presence that instantly makes Bucky think, painfully, of Sarah Rogers. “Will you let me check you for injuries? You’ve got a lot of blood on you.”

“No,” Bucky says. His mouth is dry, but he licks his lips anyway. “No, it’s not mine.”

He looks at his hands, then. He’s startled to see that they’re bright red up to his wrists, like he’s dipped them in a bucket of paint. His stomach roils unpleasantly, but he forces down the urge to vomit. The room around him spins for just a moment, all color draining away.

“—classic shock symptoms. Are you _sure_ you aren’t hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says. “Scrapes and bruises.” He doesn’t even feel those at the moment, although he remembers getting them, trekking across France and trading fire with German defenders for the last week. “When can I see her?”

The nurse falters. “Captain Rogers?”

Bucky nods.

“They’re taking him—her, I mean—to surgery,” the nurse stammers. “They’ll have to go in and try to repair the damage the bullet did internally. It’s very close to her heart and lungs.” She hesitates. “She might need a blood transfusion. Is there anything falsified on her tags other than her gender?”

Bucky blinks. “What?”

“It lists her blood type on her identification tags—her dog tags,” the nurse explains calmly. “But it also says ‘Steven.’ Do you know if any other information is wrong? It could be the difference between saving her and not, Sergeant.”

“No,” Bucky says. “No, it’s accurate. She just had to lie about her name, or they wouldn’t let her be Captain America.”

The nurse actually smiles at him. “No, I suppose not,” she says. “Can you move to a chair, or are you more comfortable on the floor?”

Bucky tenses. From where he’s sitting right now, he can see down the corridor to the door through which Stevie disappeared, but if he moves—

“It’s fine; you can stay right there,” the nurse says quickly. “Try to take some deep breaths, Sergeant. I’ll be right back. Will you be all right for a moment?”

Bucky nods, and she gets up. She comes back with a blanket that she puts around his shoulders. She also has a basin of warm water and a soft cloth. She asks Bucky if he’d like to wash the blood off his hands. They both realize quickly that he’s shaking too badly to do it himself, so—without another word—the nurse does it for him. It somehow manages to be both professional and tender at the same time, and Bucky finds his head falling back against the wall behind him.

Someone puts a mug of hot, overly sweet tea on the floor next to him, and he drinks it.

The Howling Commandos arrive. All five of them arrange themselves on the floor around Bucky. They leave one at a time to go to the restroom and clean up from being in the field. Somebody from the hospital staff comes over, irritated with the way they’re taking up space, but the same nurse who has been keeping an eye on Bucky intercedes for them, and they’re allowed to stay.

There’s food, brought to them on little trays. Jim and Dum Dum try to cajole Bucky into eating at least a little bit of his—normally he’s ravenous after a mission—but the smell alone is almost enough to make him hurl. The idea of trying to swallow anything makes him feel sick.

Bucky lets his eyes fall closed. He doesn’t sleep, but it keeps people from trying to talk to him.

“—just barely coming out of shock, sir,” Bucky’s nurse is saying somewhere nearby. “I don’t think—”

“Thank you, ma’am,” a stern voice says, one that Bucky recognizes as belonging to Colonel Phillips. “That will be all.”

The Howling Commandos leap upright. Monty pulls Bucky up with him. It’s only then that Bucky realizes he still has the blanket over his shoulders and Stevie’s shield on one arm. He thinks about dropping one, or both, but his hands don’t seem to be responsive.

“Care to explain to me what the hell is going on, Sergeant?” Colonel Phillips says.

Bucky glances up. The Colonel looks angry. It’s only Bucky’s familiarity with the man’s bluster that lets him see the genuine worry underneath.

“Sir,” Monty says carefully. “The Sergeant hasn’t said a word since we got here. I think—”

“It’s okay, Monty,” Bucky interrupts. His voice is hoarse.

Monty nods and falls silent.

“Mission was a success, sir,” Bucky says. There’s no emotion in his tone. “At the time of our last report, there were eleven men remaining, not counting the team. When it became clear no extraction was coming, the Captain gave the order for them to go to ground and seek out Resistance contacts, if they could. They’ll need retrievals organized as soon as possible.”

“I’ll see to it,” Phillips says. He shakes his head. “How’s the Captain? What happened?”

Bucky swallows. “I don’t—I don’t know, sir. We were headed to the extraction point when a sniper took a shot at St—at the Captain. I’m not sure exactly what happened after that. I just—I was closest, so I was giving medical attention.”

“How bad?” Phillips asks quietly.

“Upper chest cavity,” Bucky recites clinically. “Center of mass. Kill shot, on anybody else.” He swallows again, but he can’t get rid of the tightness in his throat. “It’s the serum, sir. It’s keeping her alive, for now. They took her into surgery.”

Around him, the Commandos go tense. Phillips just raises his eyebrows.

“They had to cut her uniform open, sir,” Bucky explains.

The Colonel crosses his arms. “Is it containable?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says honestly. “I don’t know how many people saw, or who they’ve talked to since.”

Phillips flicks his eyes around at the Commandos. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that the five of you don’t look shocked,” he says sternly. “We’ll save that discussion for later. I need to see what the damage is.”

“Sir,” Bucky says, and the others echo him.

Phillips hesitates. “Is there any point in ordering you back to base, Sergeant?”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “No, sir.” It’s not overtly defiant, but there’s no room for argument, either.

“Very well,” Phillips says. “Stay here and keep me updated on the Captain’s progress.” He glances around at the five Howling Commandos, who have flanked Bucky like an honor guard, like they’re protecting him. He sighs. “That goes for all of you, too, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says. “Thank you, sir.” He swallows. “Mar—Agent Carter. Somebody needs to—”

“Already been recalled,” Phillips says, a bit softer. “She’ll be here in a few hours.”

Bucky nods.

Phillips disappears, presumably to interrogate the staff about how many people now know Captain America’s little secret. The Commandos resettle in their circle on the floor. Someone refills Bucky’s tea mug again, but he doesn’t drink it this time.

They go back to their waiting.

Bucky pulls Stevie’s shield into his lap and runs his fingers around the curved edge, over and over. It’s battered and scuffed, the way it always is when they come back from a mission. She’ll have to repaint it, when she wakes up. It will probably be the first thing she asks about. Bucky sometimes wonders if he doesn’t come in third place in her affections, behind Peggy _and_ the shield. Funny, that he’s jealous of an inanimate object but not a living, breathing woman.

The false calm is broken by a frantic nurse slamming through the door where Stevie had disappeared. Her hair is falling loose of its professional twist, and her eyes are wide and frightened. “Sergeant Barnes?” she calls as she comes toward them. “Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky is already on his feet. “What is it?”

“We need your help,” the nurse says, babbling. “She keeps waking up. She’s struggling, and she keeps calling for you—”

Bucky doesn’t wait to hear the rest. The shield drops from his hands, landing with a clang on the hospital floor, forgotten. (It sits there, the centerpiece of their circle, as each of the Commandos consider, and then dismiss, the idea of picking it up.)

When Bucky follows the nurse through the doorway, he runs straight into a nightmare.

The surgery room is brightly lit and packed with people. The thick smell of blood is everywhere, with the sharp tang of antiseptic laid underneath. Stevie is on her back on the table in the center, and she’s thrashing wildly. There are straps hanging down from the table’s edge, clearly snapped when she woke up. She’s _screaming_. There are no words, just an unending sound of terror and pain.

Bucky stops dead in the doorway. He can’t breathe. For a moment all he can see is Dr. Zola with his round face and cold glasses. His blood is burning, and the needles are digging into his arms. He can’t move, can’t get away; he’s strapped down—

“—restrain her, Sergeant!”

Someone is yelling in Bucky’s ear, but the words don’t make any sense.

“She has to be still and let us work!”

Bucky wants to turn around and run as fast as he can. He wants to put his back to the wall to protect himself. He wants to attack all the doctors and nurses around Stevie, get her loose and take her somewhere safe. In the back of his mind, he _knows_ this is different, that these doctors are trying to help, but that doesn’t stop the panic in his gut. He can’t be here. He can’t.

Then Stevie’s scream chokes off with a wet cough, and she calls out, “ _Bucky_!”

Bucky’s by her side in an instant, without registering the movement in between. His skin is still crawling, but he ignores it. He’s never heard her say his name like that, like she’s scared and alone and he’s the only one who can save her. She never calls for him, never asks for help; that’s why he has to keep such a close eye on her. She’s never said his name like that, like she needs him.

“I’m here,” he says, and puts his hands on her shoulders, pushing her down flat on the table. (His eyes slide away from the open wound on her chest, enlarged by scalpel marks and dotted with stitches, or the tube in the center draining the blood from her lungs.) “It’s me; I’m here.”

“Calm her down, Sergeant,” one of the doctors instructs. “Her blood pressure is spiking. She’s too strong for the restraints to—”

“She’s struggling because she’s in pain,” Bucky snaps, interrupting him. “Give her some goddamn morphine!”

“We tried,” somebody shouts back. “Her metabolism is too fast; she burns right through it. We can’t keep her under for more than a few minutes at a time, either.”

Bucky feels like he’s been punched in the gut, all the breath leaving his lungs in a rush. No wonder Stevie is screaming and trying to get away, if she’s been awake during surgery with nothing to dull the pain.

“Did you at least get the bullet out?” he manages to ask.

The same doctor gives him a terse nod.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” a nurse says somewhere behind him. It doesn’t sound like she’s talking to Bucky, but he can hear her anyway. “The bullet snapped a rib, but it had already fused. It was crooked, though, and they had to break it again to set it properly.”

Bucky closes his eyes. He shifts until he’s standing behind Stevie’s head, hands still on her shoulders. He leans down and presses his forehead to hers, upside-down. She’s cold and clammy and shaking like a leaf. “Easy. You’re safe, Stevie. They’re trying to help.”

“Bucky!” she screams again. It sounds like a sob.

“I’m here,” Bucky says. “I’m right here.” He feels tears on his cheeks and doesn’t bother wiping them away. “You need to be still, Stevie. You have to let them help you.”

Bucky can see the tendons standing out in her neck. He can feel the way every muscle in her arms and back is clenched, shaking in tension. The sweat on her forehead is sour and cold.

“I’ve got you,” Bucky tells her. His hands are shaking, too, but he presses soothing patterns into her skin where he can reach. “I’ve got you, baby girl, and I’m not letting go.” It’s something that Sarah Rogers used to say, when Stevie was hurting or scared, fighting a fever or struggling to breathe. It calms her down when nothing else will. Bucky picked it up as a kid, but he only gets away with using it when she’s too delirious to be embarrassed about it. “You’re going to be just fine. I’ve got you, Stevie. Try to relax.”

A full-body shudder goes through her, almost a convulsion.

“I know,” Bucky says, desperate. “I know it hurts.” He clenches his teeth until his jaw aches. “Try to pass out, if you can.” He swipes a hand through her sweat-damp hair. “Just fall asleep, Stevie.”

“Buck …?”

“I’ll be right here,” he promises. “I’ve got you, baby girl. Just fall asleep, and it will all be a bad dream.”

It takes several more minutes, and Bucky repeating the same soothing phrases over and over, but Stevie eventually goes limp on the table. From the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, it’s not deep enough to avoid the pain, but he’ll take what he can get. At least she’s no longer fighting.

Around him, the doctors and nurses bustle quietly about their business, talking in hushed tones and careful not to bump him. They get her stabilized, eventually, and finish closing up the wound. (Bucky turns his face away and keeps saying, “It’s okay; they’re trying to help.” He’s reassuring himself more than her, but they don’t have to know that.)

Sometime later, they move her to a private room, get her tucked into a bed, and find a chair for Bucky to sit in by her side. Nurses and doctors come in and out every few minutes, taking measurements or adjusting the transfusion needle in her arm, but Bucky barely notices them. He holds Stevie’s hand on the covers, puts his head down on the thin mattress, and shakes. It’s better in here than it was in the operating room, but it’s still a hospital, and for a while he can’t do anything but breathe and hold Stevie’s hand.

Eventually, the familiarity of the routine becomes comforting. This is, after all, something he used to do before the war. Bucky long ago lost count of the number of times he’s sat next to a hospital bed, watching Stevie sleep and wondering if this would finally be the thing that took her from him. (When her Ma was still alive, she would cajole the other nurses into letting Bucky stay; afterward, there was no one else, and Bucky was listed as her next of kin.) But the serum was supposed to change all that. It was supposed to fix her so that Bucky never had to do this again, this awful waiting and wondering.

The door opens. Bucky looks up, and he sees Peggy come inside. For the first time since Bucky met her, she doesn’t look completely put-together; her makeup is hastily done, and there’s a single lonely wrinkle across the bottom of her uniform skirt. One curl of her dark hair didn’t make it into the tie, and she keeps having to toss her head to get it out of her face.

Bucky gets to his feet. “Margaret,” he says. “I’m sorry. It was a sniper; I never saw him. I didn’t even have time to—”

That’s as far as he gets. Peggy comes forward and wraps her arms around him, squeezing tight. Bucky lowers his face to the side of her neck and breathes deep, reveling in the familiar scent of English tea and gunpowder. _Peggy_. It doesn’t make his guilt vanish, but it eases something inside him anyway. She is trust, and comfort. She is a warm smile and a sharp wit, a quick mind and a steady trigger finger. She’s a waltz on the living room carpet by the firelight, offbeat to a holiday tune. He’s missed her.

It’s a long moment before Peggy pulls away. “How is he?” she asks.

(She doesn’t say anything about the tremble in Bucky’s hands, and he doesn’t say a word about the tears on her cheeks, further wrecking her makeup.)

“She’s stable,” Bucky replies. When Peggy gives him a startled look, he gestures toward the bed. They’ve bandaged and wrapped Stevie’s chest, and given her a flimsy gown, but it’s obvious that she isn’t wearing Stark’s compression shirt anymore. “They had to cut off the uniform. The bullet hit her in the upper chest.” He swallows again. “The whole hospital knows, by now.”

Peggy shakes this news off and goes to the bedside. “But she’s going to be all right?” she asks.

Bucky watches as Peggy lifts one of Stevie’s hands to hold, twining their fingers together. “We don’t really know yet,” he admits quietly. “She’s stable. That’s the best they can do, for now. The serum …” His hands hadn’t ever really stopped shaking, but if they had, they’d start up again, in anger this time. “I swear, if Erskine wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”

Peggy glances at him, frowning. “What? Why? It means she has a much better chance of survival than anyone else would have.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Did you know they can’t give her any morphine or anesthesia?” he asks. It comes out accusatory, even though he doesn’t really think Peggy is to blame. “She burns right through it in just a few minutes. They had to do surgery—scalpels and stitches and they broke one of her ribs—and she was _awake_ for it.”

Peggy presses her free hand over her mouth. After a moment to collect herself, she says, “There were—there were theories, about the serum assisting with breaking down toxins and poisons, and preventing disease. But I don’t think anybody ever thought about something like this.”

Bucky clenches his jaw so tight he hears his teeth creak. Trust them to turn Stevie into a weapon without figuring out how to take care of her, afterward.

“I’m so sorry,” Peggy says quietly. “That must have been awful, for both of you.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It’s not Peggy’s fault that the serum made the necessary medical treatment so much more traumatic than it should have been. It’s certainly not her fault that doctors and needles and listening to somebody screaming, strapped down to a table, dredges up particularly awful memories, for him. (He wonders, suddenly, how much Stevie’s told her about his time with Dr. Zola.)

When he has himself under control, Bucky turns for the door. “Come get me, if you need to leave.” he says. “I don’t ... She shouldn’t be alone, in case she wakes up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peggy snaps instantly. “Don’t you dare leave.”

Bucky turns back around, tension visible across his shoulders at the unexpected harshness in her voice.

It’s Peggy’s turn to take a steadying breath. “No, I’m sorry. Of _course_ you can go, if you need to. I understand hospitals may have ... unpleasant associations, for you.” She hesitates, and there’s something vulnerable in her eyes. “Will you stay, if you can? I’m not entirely sure I can stand being alone, just now.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me, either.”

Something in him relaxes slightly at the thought that Peggy won’t kick him out, won’t banish him to the hallway with the other Commandos. When Stevie is sick in a hospital bed, his place is by her side. He’s fought tooth and nail for that right ever since he was a kid. He’d have gone, if Peggy wanted him to, but he’s glad she doesn’t.

“Stay, James,” Peggy asks him. “Please.”

When the Howling Commandos are allowed to come back to the room some time later, Peggy is sitting in the chair by the bed, with Bucky on the ground next to her. She has one hand entwined with Stevie’s on the covers, and the other buried in Bucky’s hair where his head rests on her thigh. He had been asleep, and wakes up just enough to make note of the new people in the room, without moving. When he’s satisfied that it’s his team, and not a threat (or more doctors, which is a _separate category_ , because these doctors are trying to help), he closes his eyes again, comfortable in Peggy’s hold.

No one says a word. They just put down Stevie’s shield, propping it carefully between Bucky’s leg and the nearby wall, and file back out to wait for news.

 

\--

 

By the winter of 1941, when Bucky is a few months away from his twenty-fifth birthday, a young man by the name of Steven G. Rogers has been officially rejected from the United States Army. Bucky knows this because Stevie tells him about it, the day after she goes. She knows that it will upset him, so she feels obligated to inform him when she does it, out of some misguided sense of honesty.

Bucky is not-so-secretly relieved when the papers come back with the big, friendly 4F medical disqualification. (There had been no danger of her getting exposed as a girl, after all; the doctor took one look at her paperwork and sent her packing, no medical exam required.) Bucky may have made his peace, such as it is, with Stevie choosing her own path in life, but that doesn’t mean he can pretend to think her desire to be a soldier is anything but suicidal. There’s a difference between respecting her choices and thinking they’re good ones.

“Why don’t you try for the WAAC?” Bucky offers one Saturday evening.

They’re milling around the lobby of the cinema, waiting for the picture to start. They got there early, eager to see each other—it’s been almost a week, this time, with all the extra shifts Bucky is picking up at the factory with so many men signing up for the war America is still, technically, not fighting—and it’s warmer in here than on the frigid street corner. They haven’t gone into the theater proper yet, preferring to talk where they can stand and face each other rather than sitting side-by-side and staring at the curtain.

This way, Stevie can give him a look that says he’s being an idiot. “The WAAC is for girls,” she says. “Hence, _Women’s_ Army Auxiliary Corps.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. There’s no one standing near enough to overhear them, so her deliberately missing the point is just stupid. “I know that,” he says. “If the Army won’t take Steve, maybe you should try as Stephanie.”

Stevie crosses her arms. “It might not even happen, Buck. Congress hasn’t approved it yet.” She shakes her head. “And even if it does, I don’t want to type reports and work a switchboard. I want to be a _real_ soldier.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to say the jobs those gals are going to do aren’t just as important?” He waits long enough to see the guilt creep into her eyes. “Because I have a feeling they’d disagree with you on that one.”

“Of course those jobs are important, too,” Stevie says. She looks embarrassed. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just not for me.” She gives a helpless little shrug. “I need to be _out there_ , with the guys risking their lives.”

Of course she does. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d think she _was_ suicidal.

“Well, if combat zones and physical danger are so important to you, you could try for a nursing spot,” he suggests.

They’re a lot more financially stable than they were five years ago, or even three years ago. The war in Europe has been good for the economy, at least, since they’re sending so many supplies to England. They could afford to send her to nursing school, if she wanted. (It’s been more than a year since they’ve lived together or pooled money for anything, but Bucky has a habit of forgetting that. He’s used to thinking ‘we,’ not ‘I.’)

“It’s not the front lines, exactly,” Bucky admits. “You’d be within bombing range, though.”

Stevie makes a face at him.

“Plus,” Bucky says, his tone slipping into bitterness, “if it’s danger you want, you in a hospital around a bunch of sick people would probably kill you faster than a bullet anyway.”

Stevie glares at him. That was a low blow, and Bucky knows it, given the way that Sarah Rogers died. He’s usually better about not poking at that particular wound, but any time the war or Stevie trying to get into the Army come up, his words come fast and thick and sometimes without thought.

“Look,” Stevie says, forcibly smoothing out her features. “We’ve done good, yeah? We haven’t argued in months. Can’t we just have our night together and enjoy it?” She pouts at him, just a little. (That’s not fair, because limited exposure to Stevie Rogers has made her ability to wheedle him into anything _more_ potent, not less.) “I haven’t seen you all week. I don’t want to fight.”

Bucky can’t very well argue with that. “You got it, Stevie,” he says, and slings his arm over her shoulders so that her neck fits perfectly in the crook of his elbow. It pulls her off-balance, just enough that she happens to fall into him a little. “Want some popcorn?” he asks brightly.

Bucky doesn’t take in much of the picture, preferring to slouch almost sideways in his seat so he can casually watch Stevie instead. She’d kick him if she knew, but he’s carefully monitoring her breathing, trying to see if the cold weather has gotten into her lungs.

It’s the worst part about not living together: He doesn’t know when she’s coming down with a cold or if she’s earning enough to eat properly. More than a year apart should have given Bucky time to get used to it, but he hasn’t yet. Maybe he never will. He still catches himself turning to say something to her at his apartment, sometimes, forgetting that she isn’t there.

Bucky misses their easy intimacy like a constant ache, but he was Stevie’s best friend for more than a decade before all the rest of it, and this part is as comfortable as an old, worn-in pair of boots. He slips right back into the role without complications, most of the time. And if he catches himself about to cross that line, to let his hugs linger or stand too long with his forehead pressed to hers, well. It’s okay, because Stevie understands. It’s hard for her, too. Sometimes, it’s her that slips up.

Sometimes, she kisses him goodbye at the end of the night. Bucky doesn’t know whether to crave those, or hate them for reminding him of the way they used to be, when everything between them wasn’t broken and sharp and awkward.

“Ice cream?” Bucky asks as they file out of the theater after the picture is over. (He couldn’t name the main character or say anything about the plot at all, but Stevie is smiling, so she must have enjoyed it.)

Stevie laughs and shakes her head at him. “It’s December, Buck.”

“So there won’t be a crowd,” Bucky says. “Come on. My treat.”

“You paid for the picture,” Stevie protests. He hears the real argument underneath, the distinct tone of _This is not a date, Bucky_. Even if she had been out tonight as Stephanie, in her skirts and heels instead of pants and a nice shirt, she’d be conscious of something like that.

“Relax,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “I just got paid yesterday, okay?”

Stevie hesitates another moment, but finally nods. “Fine,” she says, put-upon.

It’s enough to make Bucky reflexively worry (more). It’s not like her to give up that quickly. Have the newspaper and magazine jobs been drying up lately? Is her rent too high without a roommate to split the expense?

(Bucky would know better, if he stopped to think for half a second. The less money Stevie has, the _more_ stubborn she gets about accepting free food or help. The fact that she’s willing to let him pay for things probably means she’s doing better than she ever has before, just like he is. Doesn’t stop him worrying, though.)

The soda shop is about to close when they rush in, and the proprietor gives them a strange look when they order milkshakes, seeing as how it’s so cold outside. They drink them hurriedly, not wanting to keep the owner after closing time. It gives Bucky a tingling headache.

They walk fast on the way back to Stevie’s apartment, hands stuffed deep into coat pockets, trying to stay at least a little bit warm. By the time they make it, they’re both shivering.

“That was a dumb idea,” Stevie tells him, struggling to get her key into the lock with a shaking hand. “You talk me into the stupidest things, Buck.”

He gives her an incredulous look. “I talk _you_ into stupid things?” he repeats, blowing warm breath on his cupped hands. “Are you kidding? I’m supposed to be the reasonable one, remember?”

“This one was definitely on you,” she says firmly as they stumble inside. She has to fight a gust of wind to get the door shut behind them.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “If we’re keeping count, I think I’ve still got some catching up to do on that front.”

Stevie makes them coffee to chase away the chill, and it’s somewhere around then—leaning against the door frame between her kitchen and living room, watching her go about the ritual of water and grounds and cups, listening to her tell a meaningless story about office politics up at the newspaper—that Bucky realizes he can do this. Just this, for the rest of his life, if this is what she wants. He doesn’t need more than this. She’s happy, at least in this one isolated moment, when she’s forgotten about the Army that won’t take her and the war nobody will let her fight.

When Stevie hands him a mug, Bucky takes it with a grin and lets the steam coming up thaw out his frozen nose. She smiles at him as their fingers don’t quite brush, and Bucky opens his mouth before he can stop himself.

“I think I love you best, just like this,” he says, quiet and earnest.

Stevie raises her eyebrows at him. “With coffee?” she asks. Cheeky little punk. “I never knew you were so easy to please, Buck.”

Bucky smirks. “Fastest way to my heart,” he says, with a little extra drawl in his words, and it makes her laugh.

(He’s pretty sure she knows what he really means.)

When the coffee is gone and the pot and mugs cleaned and put away, it’s far later than they meant to stay up. Bucky makes his way to the door, trying to be a good friend who lets Stevie get at least _some_ sleep before church in the morning. She’d never forgive herself for falling asleep in the pew.

He manages to get one arm in his heavy coat, but trying to thread the second one through the sleeve isn’t as successful. He’s sleepy and happy and Stevie’s living room is warm and inviting. He has to bite back a yawn that cracks his jaw.

“Forget it, Stevie,” Bucky says, voice at a low mumble. “I’m just going to sleep on the couch. It’s too late to walk home.”

He hasn’t made a habit of it, not wanting to push things, but it won’t be the first time, either. Usually it’s when he’s been drinking, and she’s the one who suggests it as a safer alternative to letting him walk all the way home by himself. The only exception is a couple of days last winter, when she was so sick that she couldn’t turn down help, no matter who it came from. She’d still been mad at him then, only a few weeks removed from their break-up. She’d thanked him and kicked him out in the same breath, once her fever broke.

(Bucky never mentions the way she’d acted while delirious, how she’d smiled at him like he hung the moon whenever he entered a room, or refused to sleep unless he was sitting on the bed and holding her hand. High fevers have always done that to her, turned her sweet and cuddly and unselfconscious about it. She never remembers, afterward.)

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know,” Stevie says quietly.

Bucky pauses halfway through peeling off his uncooperative coat. “What?”

Stevie is looking at him, warm and soft and fond, and she smiles. “You can stay with me,” she says. Just in case he isn’t getting it, she nods back toward her bedroom door. “I kind of miss it. It’s cold, this time of year, sleeping alone.”

It’s true that they shared a bed during lots of winters, long before there was anything romantic between them, but that’s a piece of their old friendship they haven’t tried in the wake of their fight. Something about it feels a little _too_ intimate, like they’re flirting with that invisible line they’ve mutually decided not to cross.

Bucky’s not going to turn her down, though. If nothing else, maybe it will fend off this winter’s bout with pneumonia a little longer.

For a moment, it’s exactly like old times as they get ready for bed and brush the coffee smell off their teeth. (After everything else they’ve shared in their lives, a toothbrush is hardly worth a mention.) They move together the way they always have, not in step but somehow in rhythm anyway. They don’t have to consciously make space for each other, because they still do it naturally, even after a year apart.

They fit in Stevie’s tiny bed like interlocking gears. Something hot and tight in Bucky’s chest that he hadn’t even known was there sighs in relief. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close under the blankets. Maybe it should be awkward, after so long, but it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Stevie tucks herself up against his side. She kisses his shoulder once, light and sweet, before falling almost instantly asleep.

“I’ve missed this, too,” Bucky whispers in her hair, and closes his eyes.

He sleeps better than he has since she left.

It’s well after midnight on Sunday morning, December 7th. Tomorrow, America will be at war.

 

\--

 

The serum does its job. By nightfall of that first day, the doctors are confident that Stevie is out of any real danger. By the afternoon of the next day, which the doctors assure them is preposterously fast, Stevie is awake and coherent, in pain but able to smile and talk through it. By the third morning, she’s up and walking (with a little help), and the ugly wound has sealed. Based on her rate of recovery, they say, by next week it will be little more than a puckered scar. Next month, no one will ever be able to tell she got shot.

By the end of the first week, Stevie predictably wants _out._ Out of bed, out of the hospital, and back out in the field.

“You very nearly died, Captain,” Colonel Phillips tells her, arms crossed as he stares her down.

Stevie is still in the private hospital room, but she’s standing up to address the Colonel. It’s the first time they’ve been face-to-face since their last briefing before the France mission, at least while Stevie’s been conscious. She’d demanded appropriate clothes in lieu of her hospital gown, and she and the staff had finally compromised. They’d managed to find her a large enough (barely) spare WAC uniform, and hastily attached an SSR pin, a Howling Commando patch, and her regular US Army Captain’s bars.

She looks a bit ridiculous, but now that her secret is out none of the nurses are willing to put her in a man’s uniform. It’d be _scandalous_ , and never mind that she’s been wearing one for over a year (and something a lot stupider in the field). At least they’d _put_ her rank insignia on it. Technically women officers aren’t allowed to be in command of male troops, so there’d been some discussion about whether her officer’s commission should be revoked, since no one who spent three seconds with her was stupid enough to suggest actually switching her into the WAC permanently.

(The Commandos have stood around for the last two days snapping to attention, saluting, and calling her ‘sir’ in a way they never actually do in the field, just to get the point across to anyone paying attention. Thank God Stevie had talked Bucky into telling them the truth fourteen months ago; he doesn’t want to think about how much harder this would be without their unflinching support.)

“And if my brush with death were the real reason I was still under house arrest, sir,” Stevie answers calmly, “I’d address that by saying that the serum worked exactly as advertised, and put me back together just fine. I’m fit for active duty, and everybody knows it.”

The Colonel scowls.

Bucky almost feels bad for him. Stevie had sent Bucky back to base for a few days to _get a feel for the timetable, Buck, before I go crazy in this hospital._ He’d charmed, flirted, or snuck his way into meetings, or at least into lurking in the hallways outside where he could overhear the arguments. (Of course, they’d been held more or less at shouting volume, so half the base had probably heard bits and pieces). Phillips is on their side, it seems. He’s been lobbying to change nothing but the official paperwork and get Captain Stephanie Rogers back in the fight.

The vast majority of the non-SSR brass, who hadn’t been informed of Captain America’s little secret until it first hit the London papers a few days ago, seem to be in shock. The ones that aren’t outright denying that it could possibly be true are busy finding ways to justify Stevie’s success in light of her gender, including (to Bucky’s _fury_ ) attributing all her combat accomplishments to Bucky or the other Commandos, and trying to claim Captain America as nothing but a face for the cameras. Some of them want her court-martialed for lying on her enlistment form. Several of the ones who haven’t gone that far still say she should be dishonorably discharged and sent home in disgrace.

(“Disgrace for what, exactly?” Dum Dum had demanded, when Bucky shared that tidbit with the team last night. “Being a fucking war hero?”

“For being the wrong kind of war hero,” Gabe had said quietly, with too much understanding in his voice.)

“Rogers, listen to me,” Phillips says. For once the bluster is nowhere to be found in his voice. He looks tired, and surprisingly old. “This is the same game we’ve been playing from the start, just with different advantages and obstacles. It’s about using public opinion, manipulating the press, and smoothing over egos.”

It’s Stevie’s turn to scowl. “I am _not_ going back to the USO. And I’m certainly not doing it in skirts and heels, wearing lipstick and batting my eyelashes. I’m a soldier.” There’s something belligerent in her eyes, and Bucky recognizes it; it’s the look she used to get just before throwing a punch in a fight that she already knew was going to hurt. “I had this argument with Brandt two years ago. I won it the first time, and I’m not backing down from it now.”

Bucky glances at her. That’s a story he hasn’t heard; he didn’t know the senator’s original concept had been for a female icon. What would they have called her? Miss America? While he can certainly appreciate the effect Stevie’s serum-enhanced body might have on a crowd if she was wearing a skirt that showed off her legs and a top that flaunted her curves, it just feels wrong to him. Not wrong because she’d be beautiful (she was always beautiful; it was just a little harder to notice, before), but wrong because that would be _all_ she was allowed to be. There’s more to Stephanie Rogers than a pretty face. Didn’t she prove that the first time she jumped off a stage to go soldiering?

“No one is asking you to be something you’re not,” the Colonel insists. Every line of him is weary and frustrated, but Stevie isn’t in the right frame of mind to cut him any slack. “You’re still Captain America. You’re still a _soldier_.” He rubs at his tight forehead. “I trust I don’t have to tell you how hard some of us had to fight just to get you that much?”

Stevie doesn’t look impressed. “Thank you for supporting me,” she says. It comes out flat. (Bucky knows she means it, somewhere deep down, even if she doesn’t at the moment.) “But I earned that, so excuse me if I don’t feel like giving you credit for letting me keep it.”

Bucky sighs. He wonders how much longer they can keep up this conversation (it’s been almost two hours already) before he has to send them to separate corners to cool down. He always gets the fun jobs; why couldn’t Peggy be running interference for this? She must have been smart enough to leave the moment she heard Phillips had entered the hospital. The rest of the Commandos certainly were. It’s almost enough to make him wish he hadn’t argued with that one absurd nurse who had been so opposed to leaving Stevie alone in a room with two men, God forbid, and no chaperone.

“Rogers,” Phillips starts again. Then he pauses, lets his head hang for a moment, and softens his voice. “Stephanie,” he says. “It’s nobody’s fault, but we can’t contain it any longer. The papers are running with this story. We have a limited window to try to control the way it gets spun. I _know_ you understand that, because you’re smart, and you know how to twist the press to get what you want.”

Stevie stares at him for a moment, as if daring him to think flattery is going to get him anywhere.

Phillips, though, is looking at Bucky. “Both of you do,” he says, even quieter.

Bucky tries on his best innocent look.

“Oh, don’t give me that, Barnes,” Phillips snaps. “I’m not an idiot. Corporal Morita put in his report that you ordered him to break regulations and call for a retrieval on any Allied channel he could find.”

Stevie glances at Bucky, who shrugs. “It was worth a shot,” he says. “We just needed to get the message to somebody who would think more about the political backlash of leaving Captain America to die, instead of the tactical reasons not to risk an extraction.”

Phillips nods, like Bucky’s just proved his point.

Stevie’s face goes sour. “I’m not just another soldier; I’m a symbol,” she says, repeating what Bucky had told her just before the sniper took her down. “And I knew that going in.”

“Part of the price you paid, to get what you wanted,” Phillips agrees. “If you don’t like it, tough. It’s too late to change that now, Captain.”

Stevie doesn’t look happy about it, but she finally relaxes some of the tension in her shoulders and lets her spine rest at a more natural angle. “What exactly are you asking me to do, sir?”

The plan, as it turns out, isn’t as bad as they were afraid it would be. Stevie agrees to most of it, including wearing the modified WAC uniform instead of a regular Army one any time she’s seen in public. She’ll be allowed to return to base, and to keep her command post—on paper, at least—as leader of the Howling Commandos.

“Good,” Bucky says. “Because otherwise I think you’d have a mutiny on your hands, sir.”

Stevie ignores that in favor of asking the really important question. “And our mission?”

Phillips hesitates.

Stevie’s anger snaps back into sharp focus. “You’re turning _all_ of us into dancing monkeys for the press?” she demands. “Schmidt and HYDRA are still out there, Colonel, and we—”

“I know,” Phillips interrupts. “And SSR Command is working on it. The next time we confirm a HYDRA target, I have every intention of sending you after it. In secret, if I have to.” He tries on a smile. “I’ll take a page out of your book, and get permission _after_ you come back successful, if that’s what it takes.”

Stevie doesn’t look mollified.

“In the meantime,” the Colonel says, preemptively wincing as if knows how well his next words are going to go over, “you’re banned from active combat duty.”

“That’s bullshit,” Stevie says immediately. “Sir.”

“It’s a US Army regulation,” Phillips says. “Women aren’t allowed in combat. Some people are afraid that if we make an exception for you, it will undermine the whole system.”

Stevie holds her ground. “Good thing I’m officially assigned to the SSR, then, and not the US Army. We have several female agents who go into the field.”

Phillips sighs again. “That’s different, and you know it. You might be technically classified as ‘covert,’ but you’re not a spy, Rogers. We don’t send our female agents to the front lines, or ask them to assault enemy bases.”

Bucky thinks about Peggy Carter with her sharp eye, cool head, and indomitable attitude, and wonders if maybe they’d be closer to the end of this war if they had.

“Fine,” Stevie says, tight-lipped. “What _are_ we doing, then?”

“Working on your image,” Phillips says.

Stevie raises her eyebrows.

“Reactions are going to be all over the spectrum, and mostly negative,” Phillips explains. “You’re a hero, and people love to see their heroes fall. You’re going to have to convince them that Stephanie Rogers can still be Captain America.”

“Them?” Stevie repeats.

“The press. The American public. The rank and file soldiers who idolized you. The brass who don’t know what to do with you.”

Stevie shakes her head. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“You made half the world love you, Captain, and you did it while telling lies.” Phillips actually reaches out and puts his hand on Stevie’s shoulder, like he’s trying to be comforting. “Now you get a chance to do it while telling the truth. Surely that’s easier?”

Her smile is wry. “There’ll be people who will never accept me,” she warns him. “No matter what I do.”

“I’m aware,” Phillips replies dryly. “I’ve been shouting at several of them for the last three days.”

Bucky shrugs. “You don’t have to convince everyone, Stevie,” he says quietly. “Just enough of them to get the rest out of your way.”

Phillips nods. “And not that you haven’t proven capable of handling the press on your own, but a word of advice, Captain?”

Stevie gives him her attention. “Sir?”

“A female Captain America cannot be romantically involved with another woman,” the Colonel says flatly. “They’ll forgive a lot, especially if you make it clear that Agent Carter, as a very dear friend, agreed to be your cover story. But you’re going to have to be discreet, from now on.”

Stevie’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t argue.

“And,” Phillips adds, eyes tight, as if he really hates having to say this, “if you don’t want the world speculating about your love life, or spreading rumors that you’re sleeping with the entire Western Front, you’d better give them a convincing replacement story.” He glances at Bucky, just in case they’ve missed the obvious implication. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Stevie says quietly.

Bucky echoes her.

“How soon can you have a strategy in place for the press?” the Colonel asks.

“Tomorrow,” Stevie answers, with the barest hint of a sigh. “The sooner the better. I don’t intend to stay benched for any longer than necessary.”

“Good. I’ll inform them, and get a schedule worked out for you.” Phillips turns to the door, but he stops and adds, “For what it’s worth, Rogers, I’m sorry. We kept your secret precisely because I didn’t want to make you deal with this. _Any_ of this.” He hesitates. “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Stevie nods. “I know, sir. And thank you.” The words come out more or less professionally.

She even manages to wait until the door is shut behind him to start crying.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about WAAC vs. WAC: The Women's Army Auxiliary Corps was first proposed to Congress in May of 1941, but not officially formed until after America's entry into the war post the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was later folded into the regular army as the Women's Army Corps in 1943, instead of being a separate entity. So Bucky refers to it as "WAAC" in December of 1941, and "WAC" in June of 1944. Just in case there was any confusion about why the acronym changed. (Other common acronyms for women serving in America's Armed Forces include WAVES for the Navy and WASP -- similar but not quite the same as the British WAAF -- for the fledgling Air Corps/Air Force.)
> 
> The Combat Exclusion Policy for female soldiers was abolished for aviation positions in 1993, but remained technically applicable to all other types of positions until it was officially struck from the regulations in 2013.


	9. Chapter 9

True to his word, by the next morning Colonel Phillips gets them orders to release Stevie from the hospital and return to the Army base just outside London, the one that houses SSR headquarters. The Commandos travel with her, having chosen to sleep in hospital corridors for the last week rather than leave their Captain alone when she was vulnerable. (Several different officers and hospital staff had complained, but between Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter, everyone had been convinced to look the other way.)

With Stevie in her modified WAC uniform—and the rest of the Commandos, for once, in regulation clothing—they go mostly unnoticed upon their initial arrival. Without Dum Dum’s bowler hat, Bucky’s blue coat, or Stevie’s red, white, and blue, it’s much more difficult for the average person to recognize them, even with Gabe’s skin color and Jim’s features standing out from the crowd. Stevie had gone as far as to place her shield inside her pack instead of carrying it openly, although she keeps reaching back to feel the hard metal edge through the canvas, as if reassuring herself that it’s still there.

Bucky supposes that getting shot, no matter how quickly it had healed, would make anyone cling a little tighter to their security blanket. Doubly so if said security blanket was specifically designed to keep them from getting shot again. _He_ certainly feels better, knowing Stevie has it close to hand if anything were to happen. (Every time he closes his eyes, he still sees it: red blood seeping through a white star, Stevie falling, blood on her teeth as she screams his name—)

Bucky takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and shifts just a bit closer to Stevie’s side. He’s been a soldier too long not to understand that sometimes war is chaos, and survival is often more a matter of sheer luck than skill. He’s smart enough to know that he can’t protect her from everything. But he’s been _Bucky_ too long not to try, anyway.

Their arrival seems to be a secret, though, or at least a surprise, and there aren’t any incidents getting Stevie installed in the officer’s barracks. The worst they get are a few muttered phrases or murmured conversations, whispers behind their backs and dark looks from the corner of their eyes. No one is willing to try anything, not yet. They’re still in shock, it seems. Or maybe they just don’t fancy the idea of taking on every single Howling Commando, all at once.

What they don’t know is that Stevie had given the Commandos each a firm order not to fight, not even if someone else started something. Bucky might have found it funny, Stevie Rogers convincing anybody _not_ to throw a punch if the situation called for it, but instead he’s just frustrated. She’d been very clear, though: _No fighting. No getting defensive. No losing tempers._ They can’t give the brass any excuse to side against them, or this will fall apart before she has a chance to fix anything.

It isn’t exactly fair, but nothing about this is.

(Bucky never thought he’d be nostalgic for the way the brass had treated them in Italy at the beginning of the year, but at least then they’d been given the chance to prove themselves. No one seems willing to extend Stephanie Rogers the same courtesy, as if she really is a different person somehow from the Captain America she was six months ago.)

The team splits up for a quick lunch, and Bucky once again finds himself grateful for Monty’s lieutenant’s pips, which get him into the officers’ mess with Stevie. At least if anybody starts something, Bucky knows that she’s got somebody there who’ll be on her side, even if it can’t be him. He worries about the meetings, dinners, and press events where she’ll be alone, though. That’s when people are most likely to be openly hostile, when she doesn’t have any support. (Maybe he should talk to Colonel Phillips about working out some kind of shift rotation between Monty, Peggy, and the old man himself.)

The press is slated to arrive that afternoon, but of course they show up early. By the time Bucky and the rest of the Commandos run through the enlisted mess and report back to the set-aside briefing room, Stevie and Monty are already sitting across from three reporters, each one with a pen and notepad at the ready. (Stevie looks mildly uncomfortable, sitting upright in the hard chairs, knees together under her skirt. She’s out of practice at sitting like a girl, and it shows.)

Stevie gestures the rest of the team over without speaking, never taking her attention off the reporters in front of her. The Commandos arrange themselves in chairs around her, each one with a respectful, “Captain,” or “Sir,” as they approach. (They’re still over-reacting to the insinuation that a woman can’t be in charge of male troops.) Bucky takes his usual place at her right hand, slipping into the empty chair left for him.

“—reacting to the news,” one of the reporters is saying as Bucky sits. “When the story first broke, most of America didn’t seem to take it seriously, thinking it was a hoax or some kind of German anti-propaganda attempt.”

Stevie smiles. (It’s her fake smile, her for-the-cameras smile. Bucky _hates_ it.) “Well, that’s understandable, I suppose. I put a lot of work into keeping my secret.” She laughs, and the sound hurts Bucky’s ears. “I’ll take it as a compliment on my performance.”

“So you’d have kept lying indefinitely, if you could have?” a second reporter asks.

“I’d have preferred not lying at all,” Stevie says instantly. “But when the choice was between telling one lie or never getting the chance to fight for my country, I thought lying was the lesser evil.”

The third reporter glances up, something bright and gleeful in his eyes. “And the fact that your lie cost the United States its one chance at a _real_ super soldier?”

Everyone goes very still.

“I’m sorry, what?” Stevie asks politely, as if she simply hadn’t heard him correctly. (It’s good enough to fool the rest of the room, maybe, but Bucky can see the way her hands tighten on the table.)

“Let’s be honest, Miss Rogers—”

“Captain,” Bucky says instantly.

All three reporters look at him.

“Buck,” Stevie says, very quietly.

He ignores the implied warning. “It’s proper etiquette to refer to a military officer by her rank, not her title,” Bucky says.

The reporter is watching him carefully. “Even when that military rank was earned under false pretenses?”

“Actually, it wasn’t,” Gabe says from his spot down the table.

“How do you figure that?” the first reporter asks. At least he sounds relatively neutral, curious instead of challenging.

“Captain America started out as a stage name,” Gabe says calmly. (He’s using his ‘college boy’ voice, as if he were back home participating in an academic debate.) “It was created by Senator Brandt, who was present at the Project Rebirth procedure, and therefore knew the truth about ‘Steve’ Rogers.”

“We’re not discussing the stage name,” the third reporter says harshly. “We’re talking about when it started to be treated like a legitimate military rank.”

Gabe smiles. It looks almost shark-like. “That was decided, at the conclusion of her first mission behind enemy lines, by Colonel Phillips and the higher-ups at SSR Command. Who, as it so happens, _also_ knew the truth.”

There’s an awkward sort of silence at the table.

“Even ignoring all of that,” Monty adds from Stevie’s immediate left (and is Bucky imagining it, or has his pristine, upper-class British accent gotten thicker all of a sudden?), “the decision was made just yesterday to uphold the Captain’s rank, regardless of how it might have been earned. If you won’t respect the Captain herself, perhaps you should respect the US Army officials who have made their stance relatively clear.”

Bucky has the sudden urge to cheer. He’s going to buy Gabe and Monty both as much beer as they can drink, later.

“Fine,” the third reporter says, around clenched teeth. “But let’s be honest, _Captain_ Rogers. By lying about your gender, you put the entire super soldier program in jeopardy, and took the critical first spot—the  _only_ spot, as it turned out—away from a real US soldier.” It’s his turn to smile, cold and predatory. “Dr. Erskine’s serum has certainly done wonders for you, to the point where some people seem to think it’s perfectly reasonable to send a woman into a combat zone, and let her play at leading soldiers. Imagine, then, what it could have done for a man. Imagine the Captain America we _should_ have had, if you hadn’t interfered.”

When it’s clear he’s done, Stevie takes a single deep breath before speaking. “I’m sorry,” she says, without an ounce of sarcasm. “Was there a question in there somewhere you’d like me to answer?”

Bucky catches the barest impression of a smile from the first reporter, the seemingly nice one, before the man controls his face.

The third reporter, meanwhile, is turning red. “I think it’s—”

“Actually, it’s fine,” Stevie interrupts sweetly. She’s still smiling that vacant, meaningless, movie-star smile. “I don’t mind. People’s opinions are always so interesting. Here, why don’t I give you a few of mine?”

The man glares. “You—”

“I don’t think anyone can speak as to what might have happened if someone else was chosen for Dr. Erskine’s trial,” Stevie says, interrupting him. “Perhaps you’re right, and I’m not as physically strong or fast as someone else from my training class would have been.” She spreads her hands with a tiny shrug, innocent and humble. “Of course, I think that had more to do with me being a five-foot-tall, ninety-pound asthmatic at the time, rather than being a woman.”

The second reporter smiles. The first one _chuckles._

Stevie’s demeanor grows more serious. “I can’t pretend to know what went on in Dr. Erskine’s head, the day that he chose me. But I do know what he told me, when I asked him why.”

Everyone at the table, including the Commandos, perks up. None of them have ever heard her talk about the procedure. Even Bucky just got a sentence or two, but he’d never pushed for more. He’d have felt like a hypocrite, considering how little he’d been willing to share about Zola, and how understanding Stevie had been about the whole thing.

“He told me that a strong man, who was used to having power, would never truly respect that power.” Stevie has to pause, voice growing slightly thick with emotion. Bucky is suddenly reminded that she’d liked Erskine, and she’d had to watch him die right in front of her. “But someone who had been weak? Who had lived a life without power? _They_ would understand. They would never take it for granted.”

Bucky wants to reach over and grab her hand, to remind her that she’s not alone. Then he remembers that revealing Stevie’s gender means that he can get away with things like that, now, and no one is going to beat him bloody or dishonorably discharge him for conduct unbecoming. So he does, and squeezes her fingers reassuringly, just for a moment.

“I don’t know if I was the right choice, or the best one,” Stevie says quietly. “All I know is that I had great respect for Dr. Erskine, and I was _his_ choice. He looked at me and didn’t see the sickly, weak, useless runt that everyone else saw. He even knew the truth about my gender, and chose me anyway. Everything I’ve done since that moment has been to honor his memory, to try to live up to the faith he placed in me that day.”

For a moment, the whole room is silent.

Then, for a long time, the only sound is the frantic scratching of pen to paper.

The interview goes on much longer, of course. That third reporter, the antagonistic one, continues to test Bucky’s commitment to the _no punching_ plan, but the other two are skeptical at worst and genuinely intrigued at best. It’s a far better response than Bucky feared they would get, when they started.

They ask about the ‘real’ structure of the Howling Commandos, and if Stevie is actually the one planning the raids and giving orders in the field. (Stevie doesn’t have to say a word; her men jump all over themselves to make that one clear.) They ask about the missions themselves, and if anything has been exaggerated or falsified. (Except for the comics and films, which are made up by writers, every word has been true. No, some things are still classified, sorry.)

They ask about her enlistment process, and Stevie tells the story for the first time, about being rejected—on medical grounds, not because of her gender, because none of the doctors had ever gotten that far—five times before Dr. Erskine decided to give her a chance.

“He was already breaking the law by clearing me with so many medical problems,” Stevie points out. “I don’t think being female mattered so much, compared to that.”

They ask about basic training, and how she fooled so many people for so long. (Apparently it wasn’t as hard as it might sound; people mostly see what they want to see, and Dr. Erskine helpfully gave her medical excuses for any special provisions that were needed, like keeping a shirt on during swimming evaluations and showering privately.) They ask about the USO tour, and what prompted the creation of a male ‘Captain America’ figure in the first place.

“That was all Senator Brandt,” Stevie tells them.

(Bucky is silently delighted at the predatory gleam in her eye; if this is her way of getting back at the senator for the argument they’d apparently had, it’s a good one.)

“I just wanted to do my part for the war effort, and at that point in time no one was willing to let me fight. He was the one who thought it would be good for bond sales and public morale to put on an exhibition of what Dr. Erskine’s serum could do. Of course, America’s Super Soldier had to be a man; no one would have taken me seriously, otherwise.”

The whole ordeal is exhausting, and Bucky’s not sure how Stevie manages. Sure, she has more experience with the press than the rest of them, but some of the questions are downright vicious. (Including a not-so-subtle insinuation that Stevie only got her autonomy in the field by sleeping with Colonel Phillips, of all people, which doesn’t even make sense.) How she keeps her cool and answers each question politely and calmly, Bucky will never know.

“If you don’t mind, I think a lot of people would like us to ask a few questions more personal in nature, Captain.” The remark comes from the man Bucky’s dubbed ‘the nice one,’ just before the interview is slated to finish.

Stevie doesn’t even pretend not to know what’s coming. She glances right at Bucky, and waits for him to nod. Once he does, she smiles at the reporter and says, “Of course. I’m happy to answer any questions the American people might have, now that I know I can tell the truth.”

The reporter hasn’t missed their shared glance. (He probably didn’t miss Bucky holding Stevie’s hand for a few seconds, earlier, either.) “Ah,” he says. “Well, much has been made in the past of your relationship with Margaret Carter, a British intelligence agent in the SSR. It had always been implied to be a romantic one. One that had quite captured American hearts, too, if you don’t mind my saying so. How has that relationship changed in light of recent events?”

If Stevie is hurt by the words that come out of her mouth next, she does an amazing job of hiding it. “Peggy has been fantastic,” she says warmly. “She’s known the truth all along, of course. We became quite close, being the only two women in the entire camp, a lot of the time. When people first started suggesting we might be together, we got such a good laugh out of it.”

The reporter looks a bit puzzled. “You’ve done quite a bit to encourage those stories, Captain. Not only in interviews, of course, but there’s also the infamous so-called Sweetheart Compass.”

Stevie laughs. (It hurts Bucky’s ears even more than before.) “It was actually Peggy’s idea, to encourage it, you know. It was another piece of keeping my secret, a way to make sure nobody looked too closely. A cover story, if you will.”

All three reporters lean forward, intrigued. Clearly they’re good enough at their jobs to sense an impending revelation.

“A cover for what, exactly?” the antagonistic one asks.

Stevie milks the moment a bit, inclining her head in response and dropping her voice slightly. “Can I show you something?”

“On or off the record?”

“On, as long as you’re kind,” Stevie says. She reaches into a pocket of her altered WAC uniform jacket and pulls out her aforementioned compass, the one Bucky had given her at Christmas. She sets it on the table in front of the three men. “Go ahead,” she says, nodding. “Open it.”

The nice one gets there first, popping open the lid to reveal the now-slightly-faded picture of Peggy. “I don’t understand,” he says.

Stevie isn’t watching them. Her attention is on Bucky. “Keep looking,” she says.

The reporter carefully unclips Peggy’s picture, pulls it loose, and puts it down on the table in front of him. “Ah,” he says again. His fingers pluck something else out of the compass, something that had been hidden behind Peggy’s face. When he places it on the table, everyone leans closer to get a better look.

It’s a photograph of Bucky, looking impossibly young and cocky in his dress uniform, hat jauntily tilted to the side, grinning. The memory washes over him in a sudden wave: the summer night at that science fair in ’42, right before he shipped out for Europe. He recalls smiling at something Stevie had said or done, and an opportunistic photographer shoving a camera in his face. The flash partially blinded him when it went off without any warning. He protested at the cost when Stevie insisted on buying it, just before they met up with their dates.

It’s the last time he was _Bucky_ , the one he remembers in his dreams. No wonder the kid in the photo looks like a stranger to him, now. Why would Stevie even still have it, after all this time? That night was nearly two years ago, now.

Just in case the reporters haven’t gotten the message yet, Stevie proceeds to kiss him right there in front of everybody. It’s chaste, but warm and fond. It sets off the scribbling pens again, and this time they don’t stop until someone finally shows up to kick them out.

(“How long have you had that old photo in your compass?” Bucky asks her later, when they’re alone and don’t have to worry about being overheard.

“Since the day you gave it to me, at Christmas,” Stevie tells him. “I kept it in my pocket, before that.”

When he just stares at her, disbelieving, she shakes her head. “You are an idiot, Bucky Barnes,” she whispers, and kisses him again.

It’s the same kiss, but it feels different. This time, it’s not for show. This time, it means something.)

“Well done, Rogers,” Phillips tells them later, staring at the newest headlines on the papers scattered across his desk. “It’s a good start. Now go make it stick.”

Bucky does so many interviews over the next few weeks—alone, with Stevie, with the Commandos, even once with just him and Peggy—that they run together in his memory. He smiles so much for the cameras that his face constantly aches. He might not mind so much, except it’s the same damn questions over and over. By the second week, he’s got a whole script memorized.

If that was the worst of it, though, he’d have been happy. The reporters, even the ones who clearly think Stevie should be kicked straight out of the Army immediately, have at least the veneer of professional courtesy over their hostility. Several of the soldiers and base personnel around them don’t bother to be so civil.

They spend the next weeks moving around from base to base, ostensibly to let Stevie meet with the brass on their own turf. Their _real_ mission, of course, is to get people used to the idea of a female Captain America. They visit every bar, dance hall, pub, camp, shooting range, and airfield in England. (Or at least it feels that way.)

They never stay anywhere longer than a day or two. Stevie spends her time schmoozing with the officers and press during the day or the occasional dinner, and the enlisted men and non-commissioned officers in the evenings. She seeks out as many people to talk to individually as possible, buying drinks—Colonel Phillips has managed, somehow, to get her a budget specifically for this—playing cards, sharing news, and answering questions. No matter what happens, she meets it with a calm, serious demeanor and refuses to cause trouble.

(Bucky nearly loses his cool on more than one occasion, and when exactly did _he_ become the one with the temper, and _Stevie_ turn into the reasonable one?)

The types of responses that she gets seem to come in four flavors.

Some people are horrified and furious, and take every opportunity to tear Stevie down or make disparaging remarks about everything from her attractiveness to her intelligence. Others are disappointed and sad, and tend to treat her like a misbehaving child who’s gotten in trouble far over her head, patronizing and superior. _You should have known you’d get caught eventually, you silly girl_.

Some people are just cold and distant, as if they feel personally betrayed. They tend to immediately walk out of a room when she enters, or pretend like she’s invisible even if she’s trying to talk to them. (This, Bucky realizes, is the reaction that she was afraid of, back when she convinced him to tell the Commandos the truth.)

As far as Bucky is concerned, those people are lucky Stevie is holding them to a strict _No fighting_ policy. As it is, he’s not convinced that the Commandos—Dum Dum and Jacques, in particular, but all of them at one point or another—aren’t quietly breaking that rule, not in messy bar fights but by paying a few discreet visits after hours to the loudest troublemakers. Bucky would have to report them if he knew for sure, though, so he doesn’t speculate too hard or wonder where they go when they disappear at night.

There is, however, a fourth category of response.

There are some people who smile, or shake Stevie’s hand. Some people make the effort to approach her and offer their support. Several of them turn out to be men who have seen Captain America in action somewhere, including some of the other survivors from that first rescue mission, the ones who didn’t earn a spot on the Commandos. Others aren’t, and have no reason to take Stevie’s side; they just do.

Some of them are WAC’s or nurses who bravely come up to Stevie and tell her she’s an inspiration. They tell her that they appreciate the risks she’s taking by trying to change the perception of what a woman can or can’t do. (Other women do the exact opposite, and they’re often even more vicious than their male counterparts, calling her a disgrace and telling her to be ashamed.)

Then the letters start arriving.

Captain America has always gotten a thoroughly ridiculous amount of mail, from people all over who have never met her. Some are from people who saw her on a stage once when she was still on tour back in the States. Others are from the friends and family back home of soldiers she’s fought with, or saved. (To a lesser extent, the rest of the Commandos have experienced this, too, especially Jim and Gabe. It comes with being a celebrity hero, apparently.)

Stevie never has time to read them all. (There’s an entire office of WAC’s somewhere in London who are kept busy typing up generic responses to Captain America letters.) She goes through the backlog when she gets a chance, though. She says that if it takes her fifty years, she’ll eventually read every one. Sometimes she picks out a particularly touching or humorous one to share with the team, sitting around a campfire or in the middle of hostile territory when no one can sleep.

Four weeks after the story breaks back on American soil, the number of letters coming in quadruples. Many of them are hateful, even worse than the things people are willing to say to her face, because the detachment of a letter makes them feel safer and more anonymous.

Stevie tries to pretend that it doesn’t bother her, but everybody knows better. Bucky even catches her crying once, holding a particularly nasty letter in one hand and looking like she might throw up. It arrives on her birthday, and somehow that makes it even worse.

(She’s twenty-six.)

After that, Bucky tries to discourage her from opening them at all. She doesn’t listen, of course.

“I need to know what people are saying, Buck,” she tells him. “Or else how will I know what I’m fighting?”

Bucky offers to read them for her, to weed out the truly awful ones and just give her a general report on the contents, but Stevie won’t have it. She’s decided that this is her responsibility, and she won’t shirk it.

When Bucky finds her crying over a letter for the second time, a week later, he’s ready to track down whoever wrote it and introduce them personally to his sniper rifle. Or maybe his favorite combat knife.

“No, you don’t understand,” Stevie says quickly, wiping at her cheeks. “It’s not—Here. Just read it.”

Bucky does, not sure what to expect.

It’s from a ten-year-old girl in Wichita, Kansas. She has chronic asthma. She writes that last year, her mother told her all about Captain America when she had to go to the hospital, because he was once a little guy and sick all the time, but he’d gone off to fight a war anyway. He’d become her hero, for the way he hadn’t given up or let his sickness stop him from doing what he knew was right.

Then last week, she found out from the newspaper that Captain America was really a girl, just like her, and had been the whole time. Now she knows that she doesn’t have to listen to all the people around her telling her that she can’t do things. _I promise I’m going to be brave just like you, when I get bigger and can make people listen to me_ , the letter says. _Thank you for showing me that I can be strong._

When he finishes, Bucky is silent for a long time before he hands the letter back.

Stevie folds it up and puts it in her pocket. On the particularly bad days, when it seems like everyone around her is an enemy, Bucky sometimes sees her take it out and read it again. It seems to give her the strength to keep moving forward, to keep answering asinine questions over and over, and to keep working for just one chance to prove herself.

After five weeks of their unofficial press tour, Stevie finally gets it. Colonel Phillips calls them to his office and shows them a map. (It makes Bucky smile, to see the tiny sliver of France now shaded blue, for Allied territory.)

“What do you say, Captain?” Colonel Phillips asks. If he’d been another man, he’d have been smiling. “You ready to go after HYDRA again?”

“I thought you’d never ask, sir,” Stevie says.

“Then you might need this.”

Phillips pulls a large box out from under his desk and hands it over. Stevie takes it, frowning. When she glances at Bucky, he shrugs. He doesn’t know what it is, either.

She opens it slowly, as if she’s afraid of what she might find. She reaches inside and pulls something out to show the room.

It’s a new Captain America uniform. It’s identical to the original in material and color scheme, but shaped for a female form. There’s no padding or compression shirt included. If she wears this, she’s going to look very different from the Captain America she was before. No one could look at her, wearing this, and mistake her for a man.

For a moment, Bucky is worried. The longer he looks, though, the more he relaxes. Yes, the new uniform isn’t designed to hide any of her curves, but it doesn’t look like it’s made to flaunt them, either. It has the same utility belt, gun holster, and magnetic clip for her shield as the old one. The boots are sensible, thick-soled, with no heel in sight. It’s not for a USO show. It’s meant to be worn in the field. It’s meant for combat.

It’s meant for a soldier.

As Stevie turns it reverently over in her hands, a slip of paper falls to the floor.

Bucky picks it up and reads it out loud.

_Always knew you’d need this version eventually._

It’s signed, simply, _Howard._

 

\--

 

The news about the attack on Pearl Harbor leads to a second 4F rejection notice for one Steven G. Rogers later that week. Bucky goes with Stevie to the enlistment office this time, although he chooses to wait on the sidewalk rather than accompany her inside. He’s not sure what he’s going to do, if he hears a ruckus going on or spots a cop car pulling up to the curb. This is even more dangerous than her first attempt, because she’s lying about both her name and her hometown, so as not to end up in the records as having already been rejected.

It doesn’t come to that, thankfully. Stevie walks back out barely half an hour later, hands stuffed angrily into her coat pockets. She shoves her paperwork in Bucky’s general direction.

“Happy?” she mutters darkly, eyes downcast.

Bucky puts his arm over her shoulders, catching the back of her neck in the crook of his elbow. “I’m sorry,” he says.

She gives him an incredulous look.

“Not because you got rejected; that’s the right decision—” He ignores the way she glares at him. “—but because I know how much it means to you.” He hesitates. “I wish there was another way.”

“Yeah,” Stevie says.

Bucky watches her for a moment, seeing the anger and resentment and frustration written in every line of her body. He can’t do anything to make it better, and that hurts. “You got dinner plans?” he asks.

She shrugs.

“Perfect. Come with me.”

They end up at a diner a little ways away. It’s outside their normal haunts, closer to the docks and in a slightly rougher part of the neighborhood. Once they’ve finished their meal and are just sitting in a booth drinking hot, strong coffee, Bucky makes a seemingly innocuous comment about the war.

Stevie is off like a bullet. It’s a rant Bucky has heard many, many times before. (If he cared to, he could probably mouth along with her words, because he’s damn near got it memorized.) It’s not the most ideal way for Stevie to blow off steam, but it gets the job done.

It’s a Friday evening after work, so the diner is relatively full. Stevie is talking pretty loudly about the Army having idiotic restrictions and how the only upstanding thing to do is join up and fight.

“Steve?” Bucky tries half-heartedly, to no avail.

She keeps on, hands clamped tight around her coffee. She talks about the draft and how she could take the place of somebody who has a good reason to stay home.

“Um, Steve?” Bucky tries again, a note of nervousness in his tone.

From there, the rant goes on to disbelief that they need a draft in the first place. Why don’t people understand how important this war is? How can anyone sit back and read the newspaper headlines and _not_ fight back?

“Steve! Time to go,” Bucky says.

It’s too late. Several other men in the diner have already gotten to their feet and surrounded their table.

The fight happens in the alleyway outside. It’s three guys against him and Stevie, which is more fair than a lot of Stevie’s fights. In the grand scheme of things, it’s actually kind of fun. Bucky even bursts out laughing the first time one of the guys lands a solid hit on him; it’s been ages since he and Stevie have done this. Is it weird that he sort of misses this? The adrenaline rush, that feeling of it being the two of them against the world?

They probably ought to lose, but Stevie won’t stay down and Bucky can’t if she doesn’t. By the time the other three have had enough, Bucky has a blooming black eye and a nasty twinge in one knee from where he took a fall wrong. Stevie has a split lip and is holding her side in a way that suggests she took a kidney shot that’s going to leave her with a spectacular mark. Other than that, it’s mostly split knuckles and some scrapes and bruises.

They end up in the bathroom of Stevie’s place. Bucky holds a cold compress on his eye to try to slow down the swelling with one hand, as the other hand prods gently at Stevie’s ribcage and stomach. He’s trying to determine the damage, to see if they need to take her to a doctor.

“It’s fine, Buck,” Stevie says, even though she’s wincing as he puts pressure near the angry flush on her side. It had been a knee, apparently, which was worse than a punch but better than a kick, at least. “I know what broken ribs feel like, remember.”

“You know,” Bucky says, tucking her shirt back down and leaning against the counter. He shakes his head back and forth, still smiling for no real reason. “Only from you is that a comforting thought.”

Stevie runs cold water into the sink and daubs at her split lip, still wincing slightly. “Sorry about this,” she says. She’s got blood on her teeth. “Not how you wanted to spend your Friday night, huh?”

Bucky shrugs, working his sore knee up and down to keep it from getting stiff. As if he hadn’t known from the moment she walked out of that recruitment office that they were going to end up in a fight, one way or another. As if he hadn’t all but set it up for her by picking that diner, in a rough neighborhood where they were strangers. As if _she_ hadn’t known how her rant was being perceived by those fellas. As if she hadn’t had time to notice and get clear before it came to blows, if she’d really wanted to. As if he can’t read her any better than that.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says flippantly. “Dinner and a show with my best girl? I could do worse.”

Stevie gives him an exasperated look. “Bit more than a show. You’re still going to have that black eye Sunday when your folks come by.”

Bucky turns and checks his face in the mirror. When he lowers the cold cloth, he finds his eyelid half-shut and the flesh around it swollen so that he can’t move it. It’s bright red now, but the edges are already starting to darken. It’s going to be dark purple by morning.

“Well,” he says, putting the cloth back—gingerly, because it stings something fierce—and turning back around. “My Pa was running out of reasons to shout at me, anyway.”

Stevie limps her way past him, out into the main room. “Come on. We need to wrap that knee and get your weight off it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky protests, but he follows her anyway.

He ends up sitting sideways on the couch, bad leg propped up on a pillow. Stevie sits next to him, leaning on her uninjured side, and spreads a blanket around them both. The radio is on softly in the background, and for a while they’re silent. Stevie is haphazardly sketching, and Bucky knows better than to try to sneak a look over her shoulder. He picks up a book from the end table, instead. It’s one of his that’s taken up permanent residence in her apartment, and he starts to idly flip through it.

As the minutes tick by, the space between them slowly disappears. Stevie shifts to get a better angle on her sketch, or Bucky stretches out his sore knee, and they slide together. By the time Bucky starts to feel tired, reading and rereading the same sentence without taking in the meaning, they’re curled up together the way they might be in bed, Stevie’s head on his chest and his arms around her. Her sketchbook has been set aside, some time ago now, and Bucky’s book and the no-longer-cold cloth over his eye follow suit.

“Hey, Stevie?” he asks, too aware of her breathing patterns to think she’s fallen asleep.

“Yeah?” she says, without turning her head.

“We going to talk about it?”

There’s the barest suggestion of a sigh. “The fight?” she asks. “The Army? Or …”

Bucky cups his hand behind her head, using his thumb and forefinger to massage tightness out of her neck. “Well, we already talked about the fight,” he points out. “I’ve given up trying to talk to you about the Army. So …”

Stevie has one hand curled up slightly near his heart; she flattens it out and presses her palm to his chest. She must be able to feel his heartbeat, like that. “Do you want me to get up?” she asks softly.

Bucky’s arms reflexively tighten, just a hair, as if she’s about to run away. “Shit, Stevie,” he curses. “You know how I feel. I’d be happy if you never moved again.”

“But?” she prompts.

Bucky hesitates. “Last I checked,” he says slowly, “you wanted us to keep some distance from each other. Be friends, but nothing else.” He swallows. “Give you some space to forgive me.”

“Buck,” Stevie whispers. She turns her head and lifts herself up—wincing as it puts strain on her bruised ribs, until she gets the angle worked out—so that she can look him in the eye. “I forgave you a long time ago.”

“Did you?” Bucky asks. “Even though I never really said I was sorry?”

Stevie raises her eyebrows. “Are you?”

Bucky thinks for a moment, knowing that he needs to get this right. “For what happened,” he says at last. “For the way I reacted, mostly. I had no right to do that to you.” He smiles, crookedly. “Sometimes I’m an asshole.”

“Thanks for saying it,” Stevie tells him quietly. “But I did already forgive you.” Her eyes are soft. “Sometimes the worst things we do to each other are because of love.”

“I do, you know,” Bucky says, low and earnest. “Love you.”

“Even after a year apart?” Stevie asks, cocking her head as if puzzling something out. “I know I hurt you, when I left.”

The memories of their fight wash over him. He’s relived every second so many times, wondering how he could have done things differently, that he feels like he could recite every word. Including the ones that weren’t actually said out loud.

“You called me a coward,” he says eventually. “For not enlisting.”

In his arms, Stevie tenses.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Bucky asks. “Do you hate me for not joining up, not fighting? Especially now that we’ve been attacked?”

“I could never hate you,” Stevie says immediately. “And you’re not a coward, Buck; I should never have said that.”

“You do think I should enlist, though,” Bucky says. He closes his eyes. “You want to fight so badly, and you think I’m wasting my chance.”

There’s a long, drawn-out moment of silence between them. Bucky eventually opens his eyes to find Stevie watching him, their faces only a foot apart.

“I’m jealous,” she says softly. “You could have everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ll probably never have, and you just … don’t care. You don’t want it.”

Bucky thinks about that for a moment. “We’re not just talking about the Army, are we?”

Stevie doesn’t answer for a long time. She puts her head back down on his chest, like maybe whatever she’s trying to say will be easier to get out if she’s not looking him in the eye when she does it. Her hand plays absently with the wrinkles in his shirt.

Bucky waits her out, taking the opportunity to shift his sore knee where it’s propped up on a pillow.

This is his favorite thing about them. They can just be here, together, unselfconscious. There’s no expectations, no pressure, no nerves. They’re as comfortable tangled up like this as they would be across a table or in a crowd. They’re not together anymore—haven’t been in well over a year—but there aren’t any boundaries between them. To be honest, there never have been.

“Why are you here, Buck?” Stevie asks eventually.

Bucky doesn’t even have to consider it. “Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“You could have anybody,” Stevie tells him. “One dance, one _look_ with that cocky grin, and you can go home with any gal in any joint.”

“So?” Bucky asks.

“So why do you always end up coming back to me?” Stevie asks. Her voice has gone quiet. “When are you going to find that girl that really turns your head, and get serious about her?” She swallows. “When are you going to leave me behind?”

“Not going to happen,” Bucky says. He pulls her a little tighter to his chest, just for a second, careful to make sure it doesn’t affect her breathing. “None of them are ever going to be my girl, Stevie. Not like you.” He tips his head just far enough forward to drop a gentle kiss to her hair. “Say the word and I’ll never look at another woman again.”

“Bucky,” Stevie says, admonishing.

“I mean it,” he says. “I’d have given you a ring ages ago, if I thought there was half a chance you’d take it.”

She tenses again, uncomfortable. “That’s what I mean,” she says. “I’m not _like_ that, Buck. Settling down, getting married? That’s just not me.” She pushes herself upright again, meeting his eyes. “I can’t ever be your wife. I like being ‘Steve’ too much for that.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Bucky asks, in a voice just above a whisper.

Stevie rolls her eyes. “I’ve known all your secrets since you were nine.”

“I like ‘Steve,’ too,” he says. “Too much to lose him forever. What would I do, without my best pal?”

Stevie pops her head up to look at him. “He’s a sassy little punk,” she says flatly. “Who does nothing but get you in trouble.”

“Yeah, but he’s _my_ sassy little punk,” Bucky says. He breathes in the scent of the two of them, all mixed up together with soap and cotton and cheap diner coffee. “You could have been born Steve, and I think I just might have fallen in love with you anyway.”

Stevie stares at him for a long moment, considering. “Even though I can’t ever give you what you really want?” she asks.

Bucky nods. “I don’t want anything else, Stevie. Just you.”

“You deserve it, though,” she tells him, all sincerity. “You deserve somebody who can give you that, a—a regular life. A family.” She tilts her head again, smiling a sad little smile. “You’d make a good husband, you know.” Her voice catches slightly. “And a great father.”

Bucky has to wait a moment before he responds, because the sudden ache in his chest makes it hard to breathe. He has a flash of it, some little blond squirt with Stevie’s fire and his smirk, and it _hurts_.

“Maybe,” Bucky says, when he can talk again. “But that doesn’t mean anything to me, Stevie, if I can’t have it with you.”

“It’s not fair,” Stevie says. “I—even if I wanted to, doctors have been telling me for _years_ that it’ll be a miracle if I make it to thirty—”

“Don’t,” Bucky says instantly, voice harsh. “Just don’t.”

“Bucky—”

“We agreed to never have this conversation, Stevie,” Bucky says. “It’s not going to happen. All right?”

She sighs. “I just …” She puts her head back down on his chest, going limp in his arms. “I shouldn’t ask you give all that up, your chance at a real life, just for me.”

“It’s not fair to ask you to be somebody you’re not, just for me, either,” Bucky points out. He lets her think about that for a moment before he adds, softly, “Be who you are, Stevie. And let _me_ decide if it’s enough for me, or not.”

Stevie sighs again, with a breath so deep that Bucky can feel it as her chest expands. “Sometimes you make it very hard to remember why I had to leave,” she tells him, shaking her head. “Jerk.”

Bucky smiles. “Does that mean you want to come home?”

“Home?” Stevie repeats, sounding confused.

“What?” Bucky asks, teasing. “You think I rented out your room?”

“No, I just …” She picks up her head to stare at him. “You’d let me come back, no questions asked? Like you’ve just been waiting, this whole time?”

“Stevie,” Bucky says, quiet and sincere. “I’ve been waiting for you since the moment you left.” He sweeps one hand through her short hair. “You said you didn’t want it to be forever.”

“We’re no good at it, are we?” she asks softly. “Being apart, I mean.”

“No, we aren’t,” Bucky says. His smile goes wry. “Have we _ever_ gone more than a week without seeing each other? Even through the worst bits of our fight, when we couldn’t have a conversation without shouting at each other?”

“It never occurred to me to try,” she admits. She chews on her bottom lip. “What would it mean? If I came back, for good?”

Bucky hears the real question underneath, the insecurity and the warning: _I just said we couldn’t be together, not the way I know you want. Can you live with that, or will it just tear us apart again?_

“It will mean whatever you want it to mean,” Bucky says. “We’ll be friends, and nothing more, if that’s what you want. I promise.”

Stevie watches him for a long moment. “ _Nothing_ more sounds a little harsh.” She swallows. “I do love you, Bucky. I don’t want you to think I don’t, or that—”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know, Stevie.”

“If there was a way,” she says, tears in the corners of her eyes. “If there was a way to be _me_ and be your wife at the same time, I’d take it. But there just isn’t. I’d have to give up so much. Stop going out with the guys. Maybe stop _working_.” She blinks back the tears. “People wouldn’t understand.”

“So we’ll just be us,” Bucky says. “You and me. Like we were before.”

Stevie’s smile falls sideways, crooked. “You with your parade of girls, and me with whichever poor soul you can charm into going on a double-date?”

Bucky shakes his head at her. “We’ll find you a girl, Stevie. We will. One that’s going to love you for who you are.”

Stevie looks skeptical. “Even if I could get a girl to stick around for more than a couple dates, she’d run away screaming the second she found out what I really am.”

Bucky shrugs. “If you can fall in love with a gal, stands to reason there’s other gals out there who can do it, too. We just have to find one.” He cocks his head, slightly, thoughtful. “Or one who falls so hard for ‘Steve’ that it doesn’t matter, when she finds out.”

Some of the self-deprecating humor falls out of her eyes. “And this mythical, perfect woman that we’re going to find, somehow—she won’t care that I’m in love with my best friend, too? That I always will be, and neither of us can help it?” She sighs. “People don’t like to feel second-best, Buck. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

Bucky sweeps her bangs across her forehead with gentle fingers. “If it comes down to it, I’ll walk away.”

Stevie glares at him. “No, you won’t.”

“I will,” Bucky insists. “I swear.”

“No, you _won’t_ ,” Stevie says again, hotly. “Because I won’t let you.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

She looks at him like he’s being an idiot. “And how am I supposed to be happy, without _you_?”

A slow, satisfied grin creeps across Bucky’s face.

Stevie stares at him for a moment before the light comes on behind her eyes, and she playfully smacks him on the shoulder. “That wasn’t fair. Getting me to talk _myself_ into moving back.”

“I think sometimes you forget,” Bucky says, chuckling slightly. “I know you better than you know yourself.” When she rolls her eyes, he adds, “Punk.”

“Jerk,” she says automatically, soft and fond.

Bucky drops his hand from where it’s been playing with her hair. “Honest, Stevie,” he says quietly. “We can do—we can _be_ —whatever you want.” He smiles at her. “I just miss you.”

“Yeah,” Stevie says, slow and sad. “I miss you, too.”

“Then come home,” Bucky whispers. “Please.”

When she nods and whispers back, “Okay,” Bucky kisses her.

It’s not the first time since their fight, but it’s the first one that _feels_ right, like it used to. When it ends, she doesn’t pull away or put her head down on his chest, reestablishing that line between them. She kisses him right back, instead. It’s warm and slow and lazy, a chance to get reacquainted after so long apart.

It’s by no means the end of the conversation, of course. There are still things to be worked out, discussions they’ve yet to have about how to fit back together in a way that will work for both of them. It will take weeks to get it all settled, to sort out all the details. How to love each other without being a real couple, not the way everyone else means the word. How to build a life around themselves, one that has space for other people, without abandoning each other. How to navigate around Steven and Stephanie and James without losing who they really are, underneath.

But for now, in the living room of Stevie’s tiny apartment, curled up on lumpy couch cushions, they’re content. It’s not easy, or simple, or perfect, but it’s _them_. Together.

Bucky and Stevie.

Always.

 

\--

 

The invasion of France has caused quite a bit of troop reshuffling. With the Allied push outward from the beaches beginning, German forces are pulling back to strategic defensive points and setting up for a drawn-out ground war.

HYDRA, on the other hand, seems to be retreating from the Western Front altogether. Apparently Schmidt doesn’t fancy the Wermacht’s chances against an Allied invasion, and has decided to relocate his research bases and factories farther east. With Germany itself hostile to his agenda, intelligence suggests that he’s setting up shop in Austria and Poland instead. Surveillance flights have noted convoys and commandeered trains moving large equipment east, in a way that doesn’t fit with the rest of the German defensive preparations.

The final base to be evacuated appears to be in Belgium, not far outside Antwerp. It hadn’t shown up on any of their captured maps, but the pattern holds. Over the last three days, massive convoys have been spotted streaming east and north through the Netherlands and toward Denmark. Spies have confirmed it; the cargo is HYDRA tech. Presumably they’re heading around the northern tip of Germany and into Poland, or maybe into nominally-German-friendly Finland.

The Commandos have been tasked with finding the base, confiscating any valuable information or technology that’s been left behind, and then destroying anything they can’t carry. If they can manage to slow, stop, or blow up the convoys in route as well, so much the better. It ought to be a relatively routine mission.

They parachute in with a night drop and spend the first twelve hours getting their bearings. None of them have been on a mission in Belgium before, and the local Resistance isn’t as accommodating as they’re used to in France. (Bucky wonders how much of a difference having Jacques on the team has made, in that regard.) They dropped without a firm mission plan, because Stevie wants to see the layout and circumstances before making up her mind, so the entire first day is reconnaissance only.

Being in the field with Captain Stephanie Rogers shouldn’t be different than missions with Captain Steve Rogers. The team has known the truth almost since day one, so it’s not like they suddenly treat her any differently. If anything, Bucky thinks, it ought to be a _relief_ for Stevie to be back out in the field where she can just ignore the uproar that revealing her secret has caused. (Bucky is actually looking forward to being able to shoot anyone who makes a disparaging remark about Captain America or the new uniform.)

For some reason, though, Stevie _is_ different. She’s wound tighter than she should be. Her orders come out clipped and cold instead of friendly. Her demeanor is formal and almost distant with the entire team, long after they’ve left their RAF escort behind. Her mission plan is so routine that it’s almost _boring_ , a textbook assault without any of the antics she’s become famous for employing. When Bucky mentions this, at their private strategy meeting before she outlines the plan to the team, she ignores him.

They cat-nap in shifts in the hours leading up to the assault, as usual, with two people awake and five asleep at any given time. Only when it’s Stevie’s turn to get some rest, so that she’ll be fresh for the mission, she refuses to sleep. Bucky eventually cajoles her into at least lying down for a little while, but as far as he can tell she never even closes her eyes.

It’s become a part of their routine to wake everybody up at least an hour before they need to get moving, passing around some cold instant coffee and whatever pathetic excuse for food they’re carrying on that particular day. Somebody will take out a pack of cards. Somebody else will start reminiscing. They’ll spend some time relaxing, getting focused. Eventually Stevie will go over the fine details of their plan one last time, and Bucky will slip off to take up his sniper’s perch, but for a little while they just sit together and enjoy being alive for one more day.

Stevie usually participates, at least a little. There’s always the thin layer of separation between her and the men, due to her rank, but Bucky bridges the gap and they’ve never been overly formal anyway. Today, though, she turns down Dum Dum’s attempt to draw her into a card game. She doesn’t seem to be paying attention to Jim’s story about his childhood dog. She just sits at the edge of their camp, muscles tense and eyes scanning the tree line for threats.

Bucky stands up—stretching a few kinks out of his spine—and says, “Give us a minute, would you fellas?”

Nobody has to ask what he means. Thirty seconds later, he and Stevie are alone. The Commandos have dispersed into the rapidly-falling twilight, each with his weapon ready. They’re probably still close enough to overhear any conversation, but it’s the illusion of privacy that matters.

Bucky falls into a comfortable sprawl next to Stevie, legs crossed and hands behind him. “Hey,” he says quietly. He leans sideways and nudges her shoulder with his own. “Talk to me.”

Stevie sighs. “I’m fine.”

“Clearly,” Bucky says. “Come on. Talk to me.”

“Bucky, I’m _fine_ ,” she insists.

He watches her for a moment. Her posture is stiff. Her eyes are downcast. Her hands are fists by her sides. Every once in a while she reaches over one shoulder to run a finger along the edge of the shield on her back.

“Sure,” Bucky says. “How many times have I said that to you in the last year and a half?”

Stevie glances over at him.

Bucky hums in victory. “And how many times did you believe me, and let it go?”

She’s silent for a little while. That’s okay; Bucky learned how to wait her out a long time ago.

Eventually, she huffs once—in annoyance, or an attempt at humor, he can’t tell which—and says, “My hands are sweaty.” She shakes her head. “It’s the dumbest thing. Sixteen months of missions behind enemy lines, and I suddenly develop nerves _now_?”

(Somewhere, in the back of his head, a part of Bucky is rolling his eyes. Every soldier in the history of the world has gotten nerves before a battle. Only Stevie would see it as a failure, when the truth is that it’s a perfectly valid survival instinct. One that she apparently hasn’t had before today, which—come to think of it—might explain a lot.)

“So what changed?” Bucky asks.

Stevie glances at him again, with that look on her face that says he’s being an idiot.

Bucky just raises his eyebrows. “I already know the answer. I’m trying to figure out if you do.”

She takes a steadying breath. “I have to be perfect, from now on,” she says quietly, almost a whisper. “It’s not enough anymore to win, or take down HYDRA, or bring my team back alive. I have to be so good that nobody— _nobody_ —can say I don’t belong. It’s the only way to convince everyone I still deserve to wear the uniform.”

Bucky thinks about that for a moment. “True,” he says. “That’s why you jumped at this mission the second Phillips offered it.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not why you’re nervous, Stevie.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me then, if it’s so obvious?” she asks nastily.

Bucky waits, staring at his own boots.

“Sorry,” Stevie mumbles eventually. “I—I didn’t mean to snap. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, today.”

Bucky reaches over and places one palm on her back. He doesn’t have much room, below the shield, but he rubs little circles anyway, slow and comforting. “It’s okay,” he says.

Her knees draw up towards her chest, and she puts her arms around them.

Bucky slides a little closer across the rough ground, until his hip is pressed against hers. “You’re going to be okay, Stevie,” he whispers. (This isn’t the sort of thing he wants the Commandos to hear, illusion of privacy or not.) “You’ve got the team watching your back. You’ve got your shield. You’ve got me. You’ll be fine.”

A tight, almost hysterical giggle escapes her lips. “I don’t even know why I’m worried,” she says. “I took a bullet to the chest and I was perfectly healthy in under a week. I should be—I should be _less_ nervous, now. I know it can’t kill me.”

She’s trembling. Just barely, but enough for him to notice.

“You’re not immortal, Stevie,” Bucky says. “And even if you were, you can still feel pain.”

She flinches, _hard_. Her breathing pattern changes, like she’s about to have an asthma attack in a body that shouldn’t allow that.

Bucky hurts just watching her. “You’ll be okay,” he says. “Just breathe for me, Stevie. You’re going to be okay.”

She gives him a thin, wry smile. “Promise?” she asks. Her words come out around a wheeze, and for a moment she sounds just like the old Stevie, the one he still sometimes expects to see when he first wakes up in the morning.

“I do,” Bucky says. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Stevie, not while I’m around.”

(It’s an absurd thing to say, and he knows it. The first time he made that promise—in front of a priest, no less—she was dying from Scarlet Fever, and he had no control over whether or not she pulled through it. He’s sworn it again and again over the years, sometimes out loud, more often to himself. He’s broken it more times than he can count, seen her sick and weak and bloody and hurting. There are some things he just can’t protect her from. He’ll keep making that promise, though, every day for the rest of his life, if that’s what it takes.)

It’s several minutes before Stevie is calm again, and Bucky feels confident removing his hand from the soothing circles on her back. She takes one more deep breath, slow and steady, and closes her eyes in an extended blink.

“You ready for this?” Bucky asks.

Stevie nods. “Don’t tell the team I had a panic attack?”

Bucky smiles. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “But it wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know, for them to see you as human once in a while.”

From the look on her face, Stevie doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t argue with him. She turns sideways instead, leaning forward, and presses her forehead to his. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?” Bucky asks.

She smiles at him. “For being you,” she says. “For being here. I feel a lot better, knowing you’re out there watching my back.”

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders without moving his forehead away from hers. “Where else would I be?”

“Cap?” Monty calls, respectfully, from several yards away. “It’s time.”

Stevie rises smoothly to her feet, then reaches down to haul Bucky up by her side. “Then let’s go,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to keep HYDRA waiting.”

Bucky checks his rifle by feel, keeping his eyes on Stevie. She’s not okay, not really. How could she be, after what she’s been through? Six weeks isn’t far enough removed from that sniper’s bullet, no matter how fast her body might heal. The scars might be invisible, but they’re still there. Bucky knows that better than most.

“Buck? You coming?”

He turns. He smiles at her. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, as brightly as he can.

He knows she isn’t fooled, any more than he had been by her insistence that she was fine. They’ll go anyway. This is the best they can do, to just keep moving forward and hope that there’s enough pieces left, when all of this is finally over, to pick up and put each other back together.

For now, there’s a job to do. For now, there’s a mission.

It’ll have to be enough.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the final chapter. Sorry again about the delay in posting.
> 
> Please enjoy.

The mission in Belgium doesn’t change anything, at least not for the better. It might even make things worse.

Colonel Phillips gets hauled up before the upper brass to explain himself, seeing as how no one had authorized him to send Captain America into the field. Stevie gets her own ‘interview’ with Allied Command, a three-hour debrief that Bucky isn’t allowed to attend.

(He spends that whole afternoon pacing a rut into the hallway outside, ignoring the curious looks from the MP’s guarding the area. He never hears any raised voices, and he’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse.)

The Commandos end up with an official reprimand, delivered by a very stern US Army captain who seems torn between mindlessly reciting the lecture he’d been assigned to give them, and asking for their autographs. Stevie, with her higher rank, gets yelled at by a full-blown brigadier general who—according to the story she told Bucky when she came back—seemed more embarrassed than anything at having to discipline a woman in uniform. She also gets a black mark on her spotless record. Colonel Phillips is warned by somebody even higher up not to sidestep his chain of command. They manage to avoid any suspensions, although that’s probably because they’re not cleared for field duty anyway.

If they think Captain America is going to stand for that, though, they clearly haven’t been paying attention.

“How bad is it, really?” Stevie asks.

The whole team, plus Phillips and Peggy and a few of the other SSR aides and analysts, are crashing in the corner of a local bar. It’s after midnight, and the place has shut down around them. They’re the only ones here, besides the woman who runs the place, and she’s not paying them any attention, busy at the bar wiping down glasses.

“Allied Command has revoked our mandate to go after HYDRA,” Phillips tells them, idly spinning a whiskey tumbler between his hands. “They’re looking for a new team to take over.”

Peggy rolls her eyes so hard Bucky is briefly worried she’s going to fall off her bar stool. “That will end well,” she says primly.

Jim snorts in agreement. “Who besides us is crazy enough to volunteer for this?”

“How many men will it take, do you think?” Monty asks quietly. “How many will they lose before they understand that we’re right?”

“Serves ’em right,” Dum Dum says. “They want to be idiots, they’re going to pay the price.”

“No.” Stevie shakes her head. “Listen. Stopping Schmidt is all that matters, now.”

Bucky stares into the drink he isn’t drinking, just like another night at a bar a lifetime ago. “You’re thinking about going rogue,” he says flatly. “Aren’t you?”

There’s a surprised murmur from several corners, although not from Phillips or Peggy. They had already known. Was it because they had gotten good enough to read her like he could, or because she’d told them?

Stevie sighs. “The intelligence we brought back from the base in Belgium ... it’s not good.”

Everyone’s attention snaps to Colonel Phillips. He shoots Stevie a glare, but leans back in his chair and announces, “Schmidt is planning an attack. From what our people have been able to make of the bits and pieces left behind, he’s reaching the final assembly stage on a massive bomber. One that’s capable of reaching every Allied base in the European theater, and even crossing the Atlantic with a payload.”

“Is that even possible?” one of the analysts asks.

“We’ve already recalled Stark,” the Colonel answers. “Until he can take a look, though, we’ve got no choice but to treat it like a very real threat.”

There’s utter silence.

“The bombs are based on the same tech as those blue energy weapons,” Stevie says quietly. “If Schmidt gets a chance to drop them ...”

“Yeah,” Gabe says quietly. “We get it.”

“We’re tracking the materials as he moves them, as best we can,” Peggy says, her crisp voice cutting through the anxiety in the room. “But our intelligence assets are thin on the ground, east of Berlin. That’s Russian territory, and they don’t care for our interference.”

“We _need_ to find that last base,” Phillips tells them. “Schmidt’s final hiding hole. That’s where the attack will launch from.”

Stevie nods. “If we can destroy that plane before it gets off the ground, HYDRA will be effectively disarmed. Schmidt won’t have the resources or the time to try again, not with Allied troops knocking on Germany’s front door.”

In the weeks since the Normandy landings, the original beachhead has become a stable landing zone. Rebuilding has begun on the port at Cherbourg, to act as a gateway for new troops and supplies. A second wave of landings in southern France is underway, and Marseilles will soon be in Allied hands. There are rumors of uprisings and open rebellion in Paris, with Allied troops so close to liberating the capital for good.

Bucky’s not naïve enough to think the war is anywhere close to finished. It’s a long march still to Berlin, and that’s what it will take for Hitler to surrender. The Germans are bound to defend their home territory with a little more urgency than they’ve shown in France, and sooner or later there’ll be a counteroffensive. If they can hold the lines when that final push comes, though, then it will all be over but the details. Assuming Schmidt doesn’t manage to wipe them out before that, of course.

“Did you mention the danger, to Allied Command?” one of the analysts asks, confused. “Did you explain how important finding Schmidt was?”

The Colonel nods. “Very slowly, and in small words,” he says, scowling. “They said they would handle it, without Ca—without our help.”

Stevie’s smile is weary, sad, and crooked on her face. “You can say it, sir,” she says tiredly. “It’s not _your_ help they have a problem with.”

Phillips shakes his head, refusing to acknowledge it.

Bucky will never like the man—Bucky is _fundamentally incapable_ of liking anyone whose job is to send Stevie out to risk her life, no matter how aware he is that she’d do it anyway—but he respects him for that, at least. The entire SSR Special Operations Division has chosen their side. Bucky has a sneaking suspicion anyone who protested was either convinced otherwise or encouraged to transfer.

“How far are you going to push this?” Bucky asks quietly, breaking the tense silence.

Stevie sits back in her chair with a deep breath. “I’m going after Schmidt,” she announces. “With or without permission.”

“Oh, good,” Monty says flippantly. “I was afraid life was about to get boring.”

“You don’t—” Stevie starts to say.

“So help me God,” Bucky interrupts her, calmly, “if the next words out of your mouth are _You don’t have to come with me_ , I will shoot you. And not in the shield, either.”

There’s a round of forced laughter, but neither Bucky nor Stevie are smiling.

“Bucky,” she says quietly.

“Don’t,” he says. “We’re not having this conversation again. We are _all_ going after Schmidt, together.”

Of course, it’s not as easy as that. For one thing, they don’t have a target. Not even Stevie is brash enough to just drop them into Austria or Poland somewhere with no idea where to start looking. Like it or not, they have to wait for word from Peggy’s MI6 contacts and the Colonel’s OSS friends, which is an exercise in patience. (And bureaucracy. Apparently the red tape is actually worse in the intelligence agencies than it is in the army, which Bucky wouldn’t have thought was possible.)

Most of the intelligence officers don’t seem to take Schmidt very seriously, with his radical science and his tendency toward megalomania. It’s an uphill battle to convince them to devote resources to finding him. It’s not until after Stark returns from the States that they get any real traction; no one else understands enough of the HYDRA tech to grasp how much of a threat Schmidt’s bomber really is.

In the meantime, Captain America and the Howling Commandos do what they can for the war effort.

In September, they spend some time in liberated Paris, doing parades and parties. There are cameras everywhere, and for the first time the world sees footage of Captain America in her new costume, instead of a modified WAC ensemble. (Stevie says that she feels a little ridiculous wearing the red, white, and blue everywhere, but she also feels like wearing the WAC uniform is disingenuous, somehow; she never earned the right to wear it, and it seems disrespectful to the women who did.)

In October, they get sent to the front lines in Aachen, one of the anchors of the German defensive line. Their orders are to be seen in the city (and, more importantly, be caught on camera in the city) without actually participating in the fighting. The nature of the urban warfare makes that difficult, though. Once, they’re visiting a unit guarding a supposedly secure block only to end up having the fighting swing unexpectedly in their direction.

Thankfully, not even Allied Command is stubborn enough to send them into Germany without live ammunition, so they jump into the fray to help. Stevie takes charge automatically, and in the chaos nobody remembers that she’s not supposed to have any real authority. It’s the first time since Belgium that they’ve seen real action, and it’s almost a relief to be _doing_ something, again. They wouldn’t have made it long as Howling Commandos if they were the kind of men who could be content watching everyone else fight.

The American lieutenant whose squad they’d saved shows them his report, later, and it’s a glowing recommendation for allowing Stephanie Rogers to fight. (Not all of his men feel the same, despite the fact that they’d have been overrun without Captain America’s presence, but some people simply can’t be reasoned with.) It doesn’t change anything, not by itself, but it’s a step in the right direction.

That isn’t the only time it happens, either. After the third incident of Captain America seeing combat when she’s supposed to be kept away from it, Allied Command pulls them out of Aachen (just a few days before the Germans surrender the city) and sends them to Hürtgen Forest, instead. It’s still German soil, still prime for propaganda footage, but out in the open where the lines are more clearly established. The theory seems to be that a more traditional battle will make it harder for Captain America to “accidentally” see combat.

The month of November is harsh. The weather is unforgiving, cold and wet. The dense forest makes artillery fire inaccurate, when it’s available at all. Morale, which had been at an all-time high just a few weeks earlier, plummets in the face of unexpectedly fierce German resistance. It seems like every square inch of the landscape is heavily fortified, with pillboxes, minefields, and heavy gun emplacements every other yard.

“We have to do something,” Stevie says bitterly, one afternoon in late November. “I don’t care what. Just—anything. I’m useless, here.”

She, Bucky, and Peggy are hiding from the cold weather in a tent, three miles from the front. They can hear the roar of the big guns and the sporadic fire of the artillery, but that’s as close as they’ve been allowed to get. They’re alone, for now; Stevie had asked the Commandos to do a round of the field hospital at camp, trying to cheer up the wounded. They can do more good without her there to incite trouble. (Bucky, of course, isn’t going anywhere near a hospital, field or otherwise, when it’s not a life or death situation.)

Peggy had just arrived a few hours ago, ostensibly to bring sensitive communications to the local commander. In reality, she’s here to give them an update on the technically-illegal SSR search for Schmidt’s secret base. She doesn’t bring good news; MI6 is finally taking the HYDRA threat seriously, with Stark’s endorsement, but not enough to risk pissing off the Russians. Getting spies into the area is a long, careful, excruciatingly slow process. They think they’re getting close, but they haven’t found anything, yet.

“Like what?” Bucky asks. His toes are frozen in his boots and he wants a cigarette, but he has no intention of leaving the relative warmth of the tent to go smoke one.

Peggy is frowning. “You’ll only get one chance to go after Schmidt,” she says reasonably. She’s got her hands cupped around a mug of tea, but judging from the lack of steam rising from it, it’s gone cold. “There’s nothing to be done until we find him.”

“We’re running out of time,” Stevie insists. “If he gets that bomber operational …”

“We know,” Peggy says softly. There are dark circles under her eyes that her impeccable makeup only somewhat hides. Bucky’s never been exactly sure what her job entails—he’s under the impression that his security clearance isn’t high enough to know—but whatever it is that she’s doing, she’s working herself ragged. “We’re doing the best we can, Steve.”

“I know you are,” Stevie says, rubbing at her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

She’s exuding frustration, like it’s leaking from her pores. She knows she can help, but no one will let her. Instead she has to sit here, day after day, and watch the men around her go into battle and come back broken and bleeding, or not come back at all. She couldn’t have stood for that even when she was ninety pounds of attitude with nothing to back it up; now, when the serum has given her the power to make a difference, it’s killing her not to use it.

“What we need,” Bucky says thoughtfully, “is something they can’t ignore.”

Stevie and Peggy both look at him.

“Well, it worked before,” he says, shrugging. “No one wanted Captain America, stage performer, to fight. Not until he proved he could, beyond a shadow of doubt.”

“We tried that,” Stevie says. She’s rubbing at her face, tired. It’s not due to physical exhaustion, but rather mental and emotional strain. “Remember? We got back from Belgium and all we got was a reprimand.”

For a little while, there’s only a sullen kind of silence in the tent.

“I wonder …” Peggy says eventually.

Stevie turns to her with barely suppressed desperation. “Please tell me you have an idea,” she begs.

Peggy puts her tea down and sighs. “It’s insane,” she says. “I wouldn’t even consider it, under normal circumstances …”

Bucky perks up slightly. “You’ve got a mission for us,” he guesses. “Don’t be shy, Margaret. Share with the class.”

Peggy gives him one of those looks of hers that could curdle milk.

Bucky just grins at her.

She rolls her eyes. “We lost contact with some of our men,” she says. “Over half a battalion, actually. We think they’re trapped behind the German line, but a blizzard is making it difficult to figure out what happened.”

Stevie’s whole face brightens. “A rescue mission,” she says. “That’s _perfect_ , Peggy.”

“You’d never get authorization,” Peggy says, brushing her dark hair back over one shoulder. “You’d have to fight your way through a—a _blockade_ , just to reach them, and then turn right around and fight your way back out. In the middle of a storm.”

“If we pulled it off, though …” Stevie looks suddenly hungry. “They wouldn’t be able to say I couldn’t fight, then.”

“Steve,” Peggy tries again. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

But Stevie isn’t listening. “Give Bucky the details; I’m going to go round up the Commandos.”

She gives Peggy a quick kiss on the way out, and then she’s gone. Bucky can’t help a chuckle at the look on Peggy’s face as she watches her leave.

“Was she always like this?” Peggy asks.

“Since she was eight years old,” Bucky answers.

“That’s … a terrifying image, actually.”

Bucky snorts. “You have _no_ idea.”

Peggy sighs. “Do you have a map handy, James?” she asks. “I’d better give you their last known position.”

Eleven days later, Captain America walks out of German territory with over a thousand rescued men and almost half that number of captured Nazi troops. The cameras are rolling, and they capture what will become the iconic image of Captain America for decades to come: Stevie, her new uniform streaked with mud and blood, battered shield on one arm as she watches a long column of German troops walk past, hands in the air.

Allied Command rushes to back-date orders authorizing her to attempt the rescue mission. That allows them to conveniently get some of the credit, as well as sidestepping the issue of having to court-martial her for going AWOL. The president subsequently gives a speech thanking Captain Rogers for her efforts on behalf of the American people and the families of the rescued men. Public opinion swings almost overnight in her favor; in the papers, she goes from good-intentioned imposter (at best) to tragically underappreciated hero, all in one fell swoop.

The Captain America comic books that had been suspended since July are even rushed back into print, this time with a woman front and center on the cover. The issue had been hastily redrawn from a previously written but unreleased story, so—to Bucky’s surprise and relief, when he sees it later—there’s no damsel in distress moments or overwrought romance angle shoe-horned in.

(Those will begin to appear, sporadically, in later books, but with a couple of exceptions it’s Bucky being captured and subsequently dramatically rescued, complete with flowery declarations of love and Hollywood-worthy kisses. When he grumbles about it, especially when it becomes more and more frequent, the Commandos are quick to point out that it happened exactly like that in real life, so he can’t really complain.)

Two days later, the United States Army logs an official exception for Captain Stephanie G. Rogers in their regulations against women in combat, to stay in effect until the end of hostilities in Europe and the Pacific. The day after that, SSR Special Operations is given back their mandate to deal with HYDRA; they’re also promised whatever resources, manpower, and support they need to ensure they can finish the job.

Colonel Phillips takes great pleasure in officially ordering Captain America and the Howling Commandos to take down Johann Schmidt, immediately and by whatever means necessary.

“Find him for me, Peggy,” Stevie says, face grim amid the cheers that greeted this announcement. “It’s time to end this.”

 

\--

 

On a March evening in 1942, Bucky checks the mail at their apartment, just like he does every day. He walks up the stairs, humming absently to himself, sorting through it in his hands. (Post card from Herbert Dunleavy, who’s been shipped to the West Coast on his way to the Pacific. Bill. Note from Bucky’s Ma about dinner next week. Bill. Set of coupons to the local drug store.) He’s distracted, thinking about work; with the entry of America into the war, half of the men on his floor at the factory are gone.

He goes up the stairs with a bounce in his step all the same. Stevie’s been back ( _home_ ) since Christmas, but it still feels like a gift every day when he enters their apartment, knowing that she’s going to be there when he opens the door. Part of him understands that the year and a half they spent apart was probably good for them, in the long run, but he can’t deny that he hated every second of it. He never wants to go more than a day without seeing her smile, ever again.

Bucky has just reached their door when he flips to the last piece of mail, eyes scanning the label as his free hand fumbles with his key and the doorknob. That’s when he sees it, just as the door swings open. _United States Selective Service._

It’s like getting punched in the gut.

“Hey, Buck,” Stevie calls. It’s her turn to make dinner, so she’s in the kitchen. Bucky can vaguely hear the soft rumble of boiling water, which not even Stevie can mess up, usually. “How was work?”

Bucky walks forward on numb feet. He doesn’t close the door behind him. The rest of the mail falls to the floor, making a soft flapping sound on the way down.

“Bucky?” she calls again. She still hasn’t turned around, stirring the pot as steam rises in front of her face. She’s got her ink-stained sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and she’s standing in her stocking feet. Her hair is a messy ruffle on top of her head. “Dinner’s in maybe half an hour, if you want to wash up.”

Bucky finds his way to the couch and falls into the cushions. The letter ends up in his lap, held in shaky hands. He should open it, he thinks. That’s what you do with letters, even ones you don’t want. You open them.

“Buck? You okay?”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Bucky?” Stevie’s voice sounds worried now. She appears in the doorway from the kitchen, leaning against the frame. Her face is just barely pink, the blood pulled to the surface by the heat from the stove. “Are you okay?”

Bucky drags his eyes away from her and down to the letter in his lap. Such an innocuous thing, a few sheets of paper and a little glue to hold it shut. How is it that such a little thing, almost weightless, can knock his whole world off tilt?

“Bucky, what is it?” Stevie asks. She’s gone from worried to frightened. She appears in front of him, kneeling on the hardwood between his knees. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky lifts the letter and hands it to her. “I can’t,” he whispers. “You open it.”

Stevie takes the letter, frowning. Bucky knows the instant she sees the stamped label in the corner, because her eyes widen and her mouth narrows. It seems to take an eternity for her to break the seal and get the paper out of the envelope. When she unfolds it and holds it up in front of her, Bucky can just barely see the blocky, official type through the paper.

Slowly, Stevie lowers the page and looks at him. She doesn’t have to say a word; the look in her eyes is enough to confirm his fears: James Buchanan Barnes has just been drafted by the US Army.

Bucky closes his eyes.

“Hey, no,” Stevie says immediately. He feels her moving around him, hears the fluttering sound of the letter hitting the floor, and then she’s pressed up against his side on the couch. For once, she’s warm, a little bundle of heat borrowed from the kitchen. “It’s going to be okay.”

Bucky lifts one shaking hand to his forehead. “God damn it,” he whispers, but there’s no heat in it. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought this would happen, sooner or later. They’re sending troops to fight two wars at once on three continents, and they need every single healthy body they can find. “I never wanted this.”

“I know,” Stevie tells him, desperately. “But you’re going to be fine, Bucky. You will.”

“This is your dream, not mine,” he snaps, suddenly angry without knowing why. His voice comes out as a croak, hoarse and tight. “I never wanted anything to do with fighting a war!”

Stevie recoils slightly, as if he’s hit her. “I know,” she repeats. She sounds like she’s crying. “I know, Bucky. But it will be okay. You’ll have basic, first, and that takes time.” Her arm slides carefully around his shoulders, tentative, like he’s a wild animal that might maul her for trying to help. “It’ll be late summer, maybe fall, before you even get there, won’t it? Maybe it won’t be so bad, by then.”

Bucky lowers his head until it’s cradled in his hands. “You’re not that naïve,” he says softly. “So just … don’t. Just don’t.”

Stevie crawls closer on the couch, until she’s practically draped against his side. She puts her head down on his shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” she whispers. “I’ll—I’ll go back to the recruitment center. I’ll go to every recruitment center in the city if I have to. I’ll _make_ them take me.”

“Stevie …”

“We’ll go together, all right?” she says fervently. “You and me, Buck. We’ll do it together. It’ll be okay.”

“You can’t,” Bucky says. “Stevie, you can’t. Them getting me is bad enough; they can’t take you, too.”

Stevie grips the back of his neck with one hand and makes him look her in the eye. “I am not letting you do this alone,” she says.

Bucky finally turns and puts his arms around her. She’s so tiny that he can pull her right into his lap and tuck her head under his chin with almost no effort at all. He’s absurdly grateful, just then, that she’s here. He can tell that she’s scared. He _needs_ that, right now, because it gives him something to focus on. He’s always been better at taking care of her than taking care of himself.

“Yeah,” he says, voice still hoarse. “You’d better come with me. Can’t leave you here by yourself, can I? Who’d keep you out of trouble?”

She chokes out a laugh, like he’s startled it out of her.

(They both know it’s wishful thinking. The army is never going to take her.)

Bucky holds her tighter and closes his eyes again. In the kitchen, the water is boiling over and hissing angrily as it scalds the stove, but neither of them care.

Bucky Barnes is twenty-five years old, and he’s going to war.

 

\--

 

Peggy doesn’t find Schmidt. Instead, she finds Dr. Arnim Zola.

“It’s tenuous,” she says, handing over the typed communique. “But we’re sure. It’s him.”

The Commandos, Peggy, Phillips, Howard Stark, and almost all of the SSR Special Operations Division personnel are crammed into a tight knot around the briefing table at headquarters, tense and excited. Six months of looking, and they’ve finally got a lead.

Stevie scans the print out, frowning. “What was Zola doing in Munich?”

“We don’t know,” the Colonel admits. “But we do know that he’s purchased a ticket for that train. It’s a false name, but we got eyes on him. He’s headed for Austria, first thing tomorrow.”

Bucky sits very still at the table, in his spot at Stevie’s right hand. He takes a deep breath and concentrates on the familiar, comforting weight of his rifle on his shoulder.

“Well,” Stevie says, looking up from the paper. “Unfortunately for him, he isn’t going to make it.”

They can’t drop into Munich; even if they caught Zola there’d be no way to get him out. Their best bet is to let him get on the train, get out of Germany, and take him once he’s in Austria. Normally, they’d just pick a spot and blow the tracks, let gravity and momentum do the rest, but they need him alive. He’s their ticket to finding Schmidt.

Trying to take the train at a station is risky, though. It’ll take time to fight through the local authorities, and if Zola gives them the slip he’ll blend into the populace much better than they will. Their best bet might be to get agents on that train, try to follow him when he disembarks or changes lines. Gamble that he’ll put himself in a situation where their spies can grab him and smuggle him to friendlier territory.

That still risks losing him. Finding him in the first place is a lucky break; they might not get a second chance. The discussion goes around in circles for nearly twenty minutes before Stevie ends it.

She’s got that gleam in her eye, the one that means she’s just come up with a fantastically stupid idea that no one else would even consider.

“How do you feel about jumping onto a moving train?” she asks the room at large.

Gabe bursts out laughing.

Stevie raises her eyebrows.

“Oh, my God, you’re serious,” Gabe says.

“I believe we have a volunteer to be your third man, Captain,” Monty says, grinning.

Nobody bothers asking who the second man is. (Bucky feels his hands clench into fists under the table.)

It takes nearly half of another hour, pouring over the map, to locate their target point. They finally settle on a gorge in the Austrian Alps that has a long stretch of straight track to hit. Bucky is uncharacteristically silent through the entire planning process, only nodding his approval when prompted.

“When’s our plane leave?” Jim asks, when the plan—such as it is—is mostly hashed out.

“Six hours,” Phillips replies. “Get your gear together, gentlemen. You have an appointment with Dr. Zola tomorrow.”

“This is a limited window,” Peggy reminds them. She pretends like she’s addressing the entire room, but her eyes are on Stevie. “Don’t miss.”

It doesn’t take six hours to pack. They’ve been Commandos so long now that every single one of them is ready to move at a moment’s notice. Bucky is ready to go in about fifteen minutes, which is a problem. He has nothing to do after that except think about what’s coming.

He sits down on his cot, puts his head between his knees, and breathes. There’s no one to see him, because the rest of the team is already gone on their traditional pre-mission bar sweep. They’re too professional to get drunk, but it will let them relax and loosen up, which they sorely need before doing something high-pressure like this.

Eventually, Bucky notices voices in the hall outside.

“—be ridiculous, Steve.”

It’s Peggy. She’s talking quietly, but people always seem to underestimate Bucky’s hearing, these days.

“You know I wouldn’t usually—”

“Steve,” Peggy says again, cutting her off. “He needs you more than I do right now. Just go.”

Footsteps, coming closer. Bucky lifts his head.

The barracks’ door opens, and Stevie comes inside.

“Hey,” Bucky says, aiming for casual. “You got a deck of cards or something? We’ve got four hours to kill.”

Stevie doesn’t say a word. She just shuts the door behind her and walks forward, watching him. After a moment, she sits down beside him.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Bucky laughs. “If I had a nickel for every time you’ve asked me that in the last two years …”

“This is different,” Stevie says quietly. “This is going after Zola.”

Bucky turns his head away, staring at the wall. “It’s no different than any other mission.”

“Don’t do that,” Stevie says. “Don’t lie to me, Bucky.”

Bucky runs his hands through his hair. It’s getting long, unruly. He’ll need to put something in it, get it to behave, before they leave. Otherwise it’s going to be a mess by the time they get to Austria. At least Stevie has the excuse of trying to grow hers back out, after almost ten years of having to keep a boy’s haircut. He’s never wondered before, if she missed her long hair when she became Steve, but she stopped cutting it the moment she no longer had a secret to keep. It’s down to her ears, now.

“Bucky, maybe …”

“No,” he says instantly. “You are _not_ doing this without me.”

She’s silent for a long, long moment, leaving Bucky to count his heartbeats and his breaths in an effort to control both. He’s not that surprised when it doesn’t work.

“He hurt you,” Stevie says eventually, barely louder than a whisper.

Bucky closes his eyes. “That’s why I have to go.”

“Bucky—”

“You don’t understand,” he says. “I need to face him.”

Stevie hesitates. “You still have the nightmares,” she reminds him. “You don’t scream anymore, but I can still tell.”

Bucky’s mouth is dry. “So maybe I always will,” he says, shrugging. “It doesn’t change anything. If anybody is going to put that son of a bitch in chains—” His voices breaks.

Stevie’s hand settles, broad and strong, on his back. “Are you sure?” she asks.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a fraction of a second.

“Yes,” he says. It comes out almost a snarl. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, then. Let’s go get him.”

“Together,” Bucky says, because he needs to hear it, needs to know that he won’t be alone.

“Yeah,” Stevie says. “We’ll go get him, together.”

 

\--

 

The morning that Bucky leaves for basic training, he very nearly misses his train.

The guys from the factory—the ones who are still left, who haven’t caught their own trains before his number ever came up—take him out drinking the night before, to do a proper farewell. He goes along, knowing that it’s more for them than it is him, but he doesn’t get drunk. He dances when he’s approached, but doesn’t make a serious move on any of his partners. It’s still early when he begs off for the night, mumbling something about an early start and some last minute packing.

“Oh, I know _that_ look,” Emil had said, laughing as the whole lot of them had toasted him with their beers. “James has got a girl to send him off!”

Bucky just smiles and goes home as fast as his feet can take him.

Stevie is waiting for him on the couch, sketching with tense hands. She looks up as he comes inside, trying to smile and pretend this is just like any other night. They’ve already agreed; it isn’t a big deal. It’s just basic training. There’s a very good chance that he’ll be back for at least a couple of weeks, afterward, before he gets his orders to ship out.

(Neither of them are willing to consider the alternative, that he’ll go straight from boot camp to a boat somewhere. It happens—they know it happens—but it won’t happen to Bucky. He’ll get one more chance to say goodbye. He will.)

“Did you have fun?” Stevie asks him. Her voice is aiming for cheerful and misses by a mile.

Bucky opens his mouth to make a joke, and finds it stuck in his throat. He turns instead, shutting the door behind him and shrugging out of his coat.

“Bucky?”

He pauses, standing there in the living room of their apartment like it’s suddenly foreign territory. He doesn’t know where to go, what to do, how to get past the sudden tenseness in the room. Ever since that first afternoon, when he got the draft notice, this has been easy to ignore. It hasn’t seemed real.

Now, suddenly, it’s real. In less than twelve hours James Buchanan Barnes is going to be a soldier, whether he wants to be or not.

(He has a sudden urge to run. Only how could he, when Stevie keeps trying to volunteer? Is she right about him? Is he really that much of a coward?)

“Stevie?” he asks, and her name comes out broken and lost. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking.

Maybe she does. She’s off the couch, across the room, and in his arms in the space of a heartbeat. “Bucky,” she says again, and she’s crying. Her hands make fists around the fabric of his shirt, over his heart.

Bucky picks her up, only knowing that he wants her to be closer, as close as possible. She doesn’t hesitate, just wraps her legs around his waist to anchor herself and moves her hands to his shoulders. He steadies her, trembling, but it’s not from her weight. She’s slight, easy to hold. She’s taller than him, like this, suspended in his arms.

She presses her forehead to his, eyes closed, tears on her cheeks. “It’s going to be fine,” she whispers.

“Promise me,” Bucky whispers back.

“It’s fine,” she tells him again. “It’s going to be fine, Buck. I promise.”

She kisses him, desperately, and it’s like a dam breaks. They’ve been so careful with each other, since December, drifting back together in a slow, easy spiral. They didn’t want to rush anything, mess something up by trying too hard to get back what they had before.

None of that matters, now. They leave a trail of discarded clothing on the ground and the furniture behind them; half of it will need repairs before it can be worn again. Stevie’s feet never touch the ground as they cover the distance from the living room to Bucky’s mattress. Between kisses they keep whispering to each other, unable to stop.

“It’s okay,” Stevie says, over and over. “I love you. It’s going to be okay.”

“I’ll come home,” Bucky says. “I’ll come home. I promise.”

A sleepless night probably isn’t the best start to his basic training, but Bucky suspects he won’t be the only new soldier suffering from one. Even if he wanted to fall asleep, he doesn’t think he could. As it is, sleeping is the last thing he wants. He wants to have every second of this that he can, something to hold onto in the weeks and months ahead. Something to remind him what he has to lose.

Dawn finds them curled together, so intertwined it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

“I have to go,” Bucky whispers.

“I know,” she says.

Neither of them move.

“It’s all right,” Stevie tells him. Her eyes are red and swollen from a lack of sleep and too many tears. “It’s—it’s not goodbye. Not really.”

“Of course not,” Bucky says. “It’s just basic training. We’re being silly, both of us.”

“Completely silly,” Stevie agrees, but she doesn’t let him go, and he doesn’t pull away.

He waits until he’s probably already going to be late to get up, dressing in a flurry. Stevie flits around the apartment—wearing nothing but his ruined shirt from last night, which is an image Bucky intends to keep with him in the next however many lonely weeks—trying to make sure he isn’t forgetting anything. (He won’t notice until much later, unpacking at the training camp, that she’s slipped one of her sketches into a pocket of his bag. It’s a picture of herself, a self-portrait, which she never does. She’s made an exception just this once, to give him a piece of her to take with him.)

Then there’s no more time, and he’s at the door with his bag over his shoulder.

“Stevie—”

“Don’t,” she says, and hugs him on her tiptoes. “Don’t say it. This is _not_ goodbye.”

Bucky kisses her forehead. “I’ll come home, Stevie,” he promises. “I’ll come back to you. I will.”

“I know,” Stevie tells him. “I’ll be waiting.”

 

\--

 

The Alps in December are a sight to behold. If it wasn’t so damn cold it would be beautiful, but Bucky’s not in the mood to appreciate it. Or maybe that’s just the knowledge that he’s about to jump off a cliff in the hopes of landing on a moving train, so that he can come face-to-face with the scientist who’s been a main feature of his nightmares for most of the war. That would take the shine off of pretty much any picturesque landscape.

Jim is on the radio, listening for the final all clear. Dum Dum, Monty, and Jacques are doing the final prep work before they head down to set up their extraction, which is scheduled for an hour. It gives them a tight window for the mission, but they can’t risk staying in Austria any longer than that. Getting caught by the Russians won’t be much better than getting caught by the Nazis.

“Last chance,” Stevie says quietly, coming up behind him. “You still want to do this?”

Bucky turns without taking his eyes off the sheer drop in front of him. “Want probably isn’t the word I’d pick,” he admits.

Stevie’s face softens. “I can take Jim instead; he’s nearly as good a shot as you are in close quarters—”

Bucky shakes his head, and it’s enough to make her fall silent. They’ve had this discussion six times in the last twelve hours; they’re not having it again.

“Message coming in,” Jim says. He holds the receiver out. “Gabe, it’s in French. Help me out.”

Gabe jogs over and takes the headset, pressing it to one ear. He closes his eyes to hear better, against the wind. After a moment, he nods. “Zola’s on the train,” he tells him.

“Show time,” Dum Dum says, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabe says. “Bet you wouldn’t look so happy if _you_ were going to jump.”

There’s a joke on the tip of Bucky’s tongue, something about crazy plans or Stevie picking a particularly stupid approach just to mess with him, but he can’t quite make it come out. He’s got a bad feeling and he doesn’t quite know why. The looming prospect of seeing Zola again has him rattled, maybe. For whatever reason, though, he grabs for her hand instead as Dum Dum and Jacques finish getting the line secured.

“Hey,” Bucky says. He rubs circles on the back of her palm with one thumb.

“Yeah, Buck?” she asks. She’s tense, impatient, gearing up for the fight, but she doesn’t pull away. They have maybe two minutes before a mission with a tight window of opportunity, but she stops to listen to him anyway. She trusts him.

Suddenly Bucky knows what he wants to say.

“Marry me,” he says calmly, like he’s asking her to pass him the salt at lunch. “When the war is over, and we get to go home. Marry me.”

Stevie looks shocked. “You …” She cocks her head. “You’re serious.”

“You said once that you’d be my wife, if you could do that without giving up everything else.” Bucky reaches out and corrals her hair where the wind is making a mess of it. “Did you mean that?”

Stevie swallows. “I did,” she says.

“The whole world knows that Stephanie Rogers is Captain America,” Bucky says. “Do you really think anyone can take that away from you now?”

Stevie blinks, still obviously in shock. “But Peggy—”

“Will make a beautiful maid of honor,” Bucky interrupts. “Convince her to move to the States after the war, and she can live with us.” He shrugs. “I mean, I’d say we could stay in England, but I don’t think Captain America can get away with living on foreign soil.”

“People will think—”

“No one will bat an eye,” Bucky says immediately. “She can pull off being our eccentric British aristocrat; no one will care if she turns into an old maid, stuck living with her war buddies.”

Stevie chews on her bottom lip, and the familiar sight makes an involuntary smile creep across Bucky’s face. For just a moment, it’s almost like they’re still the same two kids who met in that alley eighteen years ago.

Bucky catches her other hand and brings them together, so that he’s cradling them, almost like he’s about to start dancing with her. “Marry me, Stevie,” he repeats. “Please.”

She stares at him, still apparently unable to give him an answer.

Bucky sighs. “Well, I can marry Margaret and _you_ can be the old maid, I suppose—”

“Yes,” Stevie says in a gasp.

“Oh,” Bucky says. “You like that option better?”

“No,” Stevie says. “I mean, yes. We have to talk to Peggy, but _yes_ , Buck.”

“Yes?” he asks. He’d be embarrassed at the way his voice catches, if he cared about anything at the moment except for the look in her eyes. “As in, yes, you’ll marry me?”

She smiles. “Yes, James Buchanan Barnes, I will marry you when the war is over.”

“Well, it’s about damn time,” Dum Dum says flatly.

“Hey, Sarge, which one of us gets to be your best man?” Jim asks, grinning.

Stevie groans theatrically. “Did you _have_ to ask me in front of them? The whole damn Army is going to know by morning.”

“Incorrigible gossips, the lot of them,” Monty says loftily, as if he isn’t the source of at least half the rumors about the Commandos that make the rounds through the grapevine. “It’s a shame, really.”

Jacques says something in French. Bucky isn’t sure what it means, exactly, but he’s smiling and waving his arms about in a friendly sort of way, so it’s probably his wholehearted approval, or something.

“Congratulations,” Gabe says. “Really, I’m happy for you. But we’ve only got a ten second window, and _there’s our train_.”

“Right,” Stevie says, suddenly professional. “Me first, then Buck, then Gabe at the rear. We’ll get inside, search the compartments for Zola. Gabe, you stay up top and head for the front, take control of the engine so we can get out after we have him.”

Bucky secures his rifle for the jump and takes one last look over the edge at the approaching train. “You ready for this?”

Stevie steps up and grabs the handle on the line. “I sure hope so,” she says. “If not, it’s too late now.”

She gets the signal, and steps off the cliff.

He’s a heartbeat behind her, following Stevie—not Captain America, but _Stevie_ , the woman who just agreed to marry him—exactly like he said he always would, back when this began. In that moment, suspended in midair in the most beautiful mountains he’ll ever see, Bucky Barnes smiles.

If his story ended here, perhaps it could still be called happy, despite everything.

 

\--

 

Instead, he falls.

 

\--

 

In September of 1942, after entertaining both his own date and Stevie’s for the evening, Sergeant James Barnes comes home to their apartment on the last night before he ships out for Europe.

There are a lot of things that he doesn’t know, yet. He doesn’t know that he’ll never set foot in this apartment again. He doesn’t know that Stevie’s guilty look as she apologizes for ditching him isn’t just because she left, but because she’s already met Dr. Erskine and signed up for the super soldier program, and isn’t telling him about it. He doesn’t know that, by all rights, this should be the last time he ever sees the woman he loves, and that only a strange twist of luck or fate will grant them their second chance. He doesn’t know that the next time they meet, they’ll both have been touched by the war in ways that will never go away.

There are some things that Bucky Barnes does know, however. He knows that he’s going to war, and that there are no guarantees. So, like all the soldiers before him and all the ones since, he pulls the person he loves most in the world into his arms one last time.

“You still my girl, Stevie?” he asks her.

“Always, Buck,” she says. “Be careful out there.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, knowing that she will anyway. “I’ll come home, Stevie.”

Bucky Barnes knows that it might be a lie.

What he doesn’t know is that it’s true, albeit in a way no one could have ever predicted.

 

\--

 

It takes more than seventy years for Bucky Barnes to keep his promise.

When he does, against all logic, Stevie is there to keep hers.

 

\--

 

_I’ll come home, Stevie. I’ll come back to you._

_I know. I’ll be waiting._

 

 

_\--_


End file.
